Falling Slowly
by girlinshipwreck
Summary: The Doctor and his hybrid companion, Vivien, are captured by the alien resistance movement, the 2nd Massachusetts, and it's only Tom Mason who reluctantly stands between them and certain death. But what's fair in love and war starts to become unclear as Tom and Vivien begin to fall for each other. {AU}.
1. Kaleidoscope

******Author's Note: **_Videos for this story, including characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel under **girlinashipwreck**_

* * *

**Kaleidoscope**

_The fall takes no time and forever. _

Vivien sat cross-legged in front of the roaring fire, towel-drying her long dark hair. The Doctor was at a nearby French Empire era writing bureau that had once belonged to Napoleon, elbows akimbo as he pored over ancient star charts. They were in the library, enjoying a rare quiet moment - or taking a breather as Vivien liked to call it. Usually she didn't like being in the library; its academic atmosphere oppressed her, as did the overwhelming amount of books. Vivien was not a bibliophile. But as of late, she had begun to retreat to the library whenever she needed a moment to herself, the silence stilling her stormy soul.

The Doctor glanced up at her, taking in her pensive profile. Brow furrowing slightly, he stood up, scattering scrolls as he did so. Ignoring their disarray, he stretched his arms above his head, yawning theatrically. But still Vivien paid him no heed. The towel slipped through her fingers, falling to the floor as she pushed the hair out of her eyes, gazing into the flickering flames with a frown.

"Earth to Vivien, Earth to Vivien," the Doctor intoned, striding over to her, his voice making her start violently.

"What the hell..." she began, before falling silent as he raised his eyebrows in expectation of more vitriol. She wasn't going to fall into that trap again. "Where are we?" she asked, changing tact. Whilst she'd been washing her hair, he'd parked the TARDIS, but where, she didn't know, and just now, she didn't particularly care. But she didn't want to pick another fight with him, so she sought to stay civil instead.

"We're on Earth funnily enough," he replied, tugging at his earlobe. "But when or where, I don't really know."

Vivien made a face.

"I was going head up to the console room," the Doctor then said, eying her thoughtfully. "Wanna come? I'll let you loose on the levers."

She shook her head, turning back to face the fire.

The Doctor studied her for a long moment, resisting the urge to say, _your loss then,_ before turning and leaving her to the silence of the library.

* * *

Vivien curled up on the _chaise longue_, trying to block out the darkness of her thoughts. The silence began to bore into her skull, its very emptiness a cacophony. The fire had died down, leaving a chill that went deeper than the bones. A part of her wished for a blanket, another part wished for the Doctor, for his presence to chase away the encroaching darkness. But to admit her need of him would be admitting defeat. This was a battle she had to fight on her own. Running away with him had been a mistaken surrender, and she wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

She closed her eyes, falling into darkness, succumbing to slumber.

* * *

He paced the platform, the metal grilles clanging under his frantic feet. Vivien fell into these black holes as regular as clockwork, but the more he attempted to bring her back from the brink, the further she fell. He understood why; she'd lost so much and too much, and running away with him on her wedding day had ruined her relationship with Jamie irrevocably beyond repair. That's why she'd come with him, to escape from the emptiness of her life. But she couldn't outrun what she had become, and she couldn't accept it either.

At heart she was still Vivien, but at the same time she wasn't. He missed the wide-eyed child with the tangled black hair, and he missed the woman she should have grown into. Sometimes it was like looking at a stranger, and other times she was still her; funny, fierce, ever so slightly frightening. But the distance was growing between them and he didn't know how to cross it. He thought love could bridge it, but his love wasn't the right kind, and neither was hers. There was fire and sparks, but the passion present was platonic underneath all the fireworks. Love was there, but it wasn't enough and it never would be.

The Doctor ran his fingers agitatedly through his hair, rumpling it up, before striding over to the monitor. Pulling it towards him, he studied the screen. The prospect didn't seem too enticing, some old warehouse in South Boston, if he was to trust the TARDIS. For all he knew, he could be on Futya, about to become a cannibal's Christmas dinner. He knew Vivien would enjoy the sight of him being slowly roasted over a roaring fire.

He tapped the side of the monitor, thinking. South Boston. South Boston. _South Boston. _Sounded like the sort of place to take a stroll in. That decided it for him. He would go for a little wander, clear the cobwebs and all that jazz.

* * *

Vivien woke up with a jolt, almost toppling over the side of the_ chaise longue_. She lay there, heart thumping in her chest, the stars soaring above her, an illusion that never failed to deceive. Then she sat up, the Doctor's long brown coat slipping to the floor. Vivien stared at it, a lump forming in her throat. His concern was something he didn't always show, but she only had herself to blame for that, always keeping him at arm's length, never quite trusting him.

Swinging her legs over the side, she stood up, craning her neck as she scanned the library for him, just in case he was lurking in one of the aisles, lost in some obscure volume. But he was nowhere to be seen. This wasn't unusual in itself, but still she felt rattled for some unidentifiable reason. She tried to tell herself the Doctor was probably still pottering about in the console room or perhaps trapped in a toilet somewhere. That had happened a few times, too many times for her taste. It always took her at least a day to locate him, and she always had to pack a bag for the journey.

But some instinct warned her that he wasn't in the TARDIS, not anymore at least, and she set off at a run, becoming nothing more than a shadow cast by the stars above.

* * *

Vivien stepped out from between the TARDIS's blue doors, her bare feet colliding with cold concrete. Looking for him in the console room had led to her checking the monitor. South Boston it had said, and here she was, on the threshold of discovery, the Doctor briefly forgotten. She stood there for a moment, taking in her surroundings, the dark cobwebbed corners and shelves, the rafters soaring above her. It seemed to be some sort of abandoned warehouse, sacks and boxes of God knew what stacked up in piles here and there, gathering dust.

Quietly closing the doors behind her, she turned her key in the Yale lock before slipping the silver chain over her head, the metal cold against her skin. Tucking it out of sight under her camisole, she stepped forwards, anticipation setting her indigo eyes alight with blue fire. Stepping into the unknown sustained her reckless soul, even if the unknown was nothing more than a deserted building. Who knew what would step forth from the darkness...

As though in response to her thoughts, the ground began to shake, making her stumble. Flinging her arms out to balance herself, she ran, teeth rattling in her skull. Throwing herself behind some shelves, she ducked down as a huge metal creature stomped into view, emanating a terrible droning sound that reminded her of air raid sirens. For a moment Vivien was back in the Blitz, with her drawn on seams and Victory Roll, London falling, falling... The metal creature circled the TARDIS in a series of clanking sidesteps, its jutting head tilted to one side as it studied the blue box.

Vivien watched, heart in mouth. Then static exploded in her mind, making her body jolt violently like she'd been electrocuted. Flashes of high-pitched screeches and hisses punctuated the vacant buzz before suddenly falling silent. She fell forwards, slumping against the shelves. The sound of scuttling skittering feet filled the void, scaling the walls, crossing the ceiling, heading towards the TARDIS.

* * *

Drenched in its tarlike blood, the Doctor frantically worked over the creature, muttering manically, _stay with me, stay with me, stay with me_, scanning its mottled green body with his sonic. A tear leaked from its lizard-like eye, murky and opaque, rolling down and splashing onto the Doctor's suit. He leaned his forehead against its, whispering, _it's alright, it's alright, you're safe now, safe as houses..._

The Doctor had left Vivien slumbering in the library, draping his coat over her, before going for his wander. But a brief wander had become a bit of a trek, and somehow he'd swapped the warehouse for a street, then another, and another, until he'd found himself down a back alley, miles away from where he'd originally started.

He wasn't quite sure how that had happened. The thought had left him scratching his head until he'd heard a weak chitter, a sound that caught at his old hearts'. That's when he'd found the creature, hidden behind some dumpsters, lying on its side, badly wounded, breathing laboured and slow. It had obviously crawled away to die in some lonely desolate spot until he'd found it in all its bitter ignominy.

His head shot up as something clanged to the ground, swiftly followed by a rolling sound. His gaze crashed into the red-eyed one of the creature opposite as the metal dustbin lid span to a halt from where one of the creature's many legs had knocked it over. One ancient being looked upon another, all of time and space hanging in the balance between them, then the world tipped sideways onto its axis as an explosion rent existence in half, the Doctor flinging himself across the dying creature, trying to protect it from the blast with his body.

* * *

A distant explosion rocked the building, the static returning, becoming a scream, making Vivien want to tear the insides of her skull out. Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped again. Head still spinning, she took her chance, crawling behind a stack of crates, retreating further into the shadows, trying not to choke on the dust swirling through the air. The sound of skittering feet was accompanied by bangs and a dragging sound, and she realised with a sickening jolt they were taking the TARDIS away.

Then the static returned again, becoming a full blow storm, drowning out the outside world, making her clamp her hands over her ears, even though the gesture was completely useless. Clenching her teeth, she, tried to suffocate the screams crawling up her throat, body contorting horribly with the effort. Then it suddenly fell silent in her head once more. She slumped forwards again, breath coming in huge rasps, fingers clutching the crates for support.

Then the hairs stood up on the back of her neck, one by one. Slowly she turned around, only to see a creature watching her as though it _knew_ her, the left hand side of its mottled green face distorted by vicious scars. They stared at each other, girl and monster, and then the creature jerked its head at somewhere behind it, as though to say _go, now! _Shaking from head to foot, Vivien staggered to her feet; somehow managing to drag herself past the creature and out of the warehouse, the journey a blur, her mind a kaleidoscope of confusion.

She crept along the alleyway, back pressed against the wall, ducking behind a dumpster as a beam of blindingly silver light sliced through the air, dividing the darkness. Vivien waited it out until it was gone, then she started moving again, the uneven ground digging threateningly against the bare soles of her feet. Every step felt like a betrayal, abandoning the TARDIS to save her own sorry skin. Shivering from shock and the cold, she cursed the arrogant stupidity of setting out in only her pyjamas, a crimson silk camisole and red and white candy striped girl boxers. Being a hybrid made her slightly more durable than the average human, but only just. But still she crept on, falling further into an unforgiving world.

* * *

Coughing on the swirling dust and smoke, the Doctor looked up again, shielding his eyes with his arm, but the red-eyed creature was nowhere to be seen. The silence seemed to spin out into oblivion, before being shattered into a thousand fragments. Gunfire and screams drifted from the street further down, explosions renting existence in half over and over again, making him duck down. The ground began to shake, a dull droning drilling into his skull, making him hunch protectively over the creature, hearts cracking in his chest at seeing the light fading from its eyes.

Cradling it in his arms, he tried to support its head as it struggled to breathe. From somewhere nearby, a man screamed, the sky above the rooftops turning amber, edged with indigo. Voice choked, the Doctor told the creature to go to sleep, to rest now. The sky then flashed silver, an odd electric thrum humming through the air, a girl crying out in pain, her agony echoing his own. The creature's gaze found his, holding it for a long moment, then its eyes fluttered shut, something like relief flickering across its face before it slipped away.

In the distance, there was the sound of skittering footsteps, then hissing, growling, the guttural frequency switching between different pitches and paces. It was a language he didn't understand, and it was no longer being translated either, which told him something had happened to the TARDIS, and in turn, Vivien. The Doctor bowed his head, closing the creature's eyes with a shaking hand, his grief becoming eclipsed by the fear everything he cared about was in danger, when he was here, so far away, too far away...

"You Skitter lovin' son o' a bitch," a voice said in disgust. Jaw clenching, the Doctor raised his head, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Its owner, a middle-aged man in dirty double-denim, spat on the dead creature, making the Doctor start forwards, only to stop as the shotgun found his temple. "Don't move another muscle, or I'll blast your ass to kingdom come," the man growled.

* * *

Feet aching and bleeding, Vivien stumbled to a halt, ducking behind an overturned car. In the distance, the skyline was alight with silver and amber flashes, explosions and gunfire making her ears ache. She unsteadily got to her feet again, before sprinting forwards, heading towards another alleyway opening further down. Then she heard it again, that sickening drone that made the pit of her stomach turn cold. The ground began to shake again, as the sound of stomping metal feet drew closer.

Vivien hesitated, realising she wasn't going to make it to the alleyway, not without giving away her position, exposing herself. She'd rapidly figured out she was being hunted down. What for, she didn't know, but she suspected it was to do with the TARDIS. She cut her run short, hiding in a doorway instead, shrouding herself in shadow as a white searchlight scanned the street. She didn't move, keeping very still, hardly daring to breathe.

Where was the Doctor? she wondered, cursing him, hoping to hell he was safe and sound somewhere.

* * *

Suddenly a bearded middle-aged man and his teenage son burst through a fire exit behind the Doctor, making the double-denimed man whirl around, aiming his shotgun at them instead.

"Whoa! It's just us, Tom and Hal Mason, remember?!" the boy snapped sarcastically, holding his hands up in mock surrender. The double-denimed man hesitated, wrong footed. Seeing his chance, the Doctor leapt to his feet, ready to run, only to falter as he found himself facing a row of guns and hostile faces.

"What's going on, Weaver?" the bearded man called Tom asked, his dark eyes darting between the Doctor and the others, seeing everything, missing nothing, yet still completely clueless for all that.

Dan Weaver, with his weather-beaten face, keen grey eyes and stubbled skin, advanced forwards, his rear guard composed of three other men following close behind, their guns still trained on the Doctor. The Doctor studied Weaver, taking in the camouflage patterned skip-hat and matching military fatigues, the long ash-grey hair tied back in a pony-tail; the Doctor's gaze then flickering over Tom and his son instead, sizing them up. Tom, toweringly tall, looking like he'd slept under a bridge all night. Hal, the princeling with his jock good looks obviously not inherited from his homely looking sire. They were the weak points. They'd hesitated when the others hadn't, the only two who didn't have their guns trained on him.

"Found this beatnik here cradling a dying Skitter in his arms like it was his grandmother on her deathbed," Weaver explained, voice virulent with venom.

Tom and Hal looked at the Doctor in disbelief, taking a step back as though he were contaminated.

Weaver jerked his head at the Doctor, who was still clutching his screwdriver. "Drop whatever you've got in your hand, son," he ordered.

The Doctor looked at his sonic, startled. He'd forgotten he was holding it. Gritting his teeth, he threw it to the ground, wherein Weaver aimed his rifle at it, making the Doctor spring forwards, only to leap backwards, arms flying up to his face as Weaver blasted it to pieces with bullets, the Doctor involuntarily shouting, "NO!"

Weaver ignored him, saying to Tom, "Never mind what's happening here. What's going down out there?"

"Mechs, front. The Colton Street barricade's down. Skitters too," Tom said quickly.

Weaver's face paled. Then he caught himself. "They're up to the Common. Both barricades there are gone," Weaver said gruffly. "We're falling back. Back Bay is lost."

* * *

Vivien closed her eyes as the metal creature moved on, its drone fading into the distance. She had to make a decision and fast, whether to stay put or run. Feeling like a fox on the hunting field, she counted to three, before exhaling sharply and making a bolt for it down the street, turning into the alleyway. She slumped against the wall, clutching her side, a stitch building, but she forced herself to move again.

Almost blindly she turned corner after corner, fleeing down alleyway after alleyway, sticking to the backstreets, ducking at the slightest shadow, flinching at the faintest noise. Her lungs were screaming at her to stop, but to stop meant being captured, killed even. These things wanted her as they had wanted the TARDIS, and whilst she wanted the TARDIS back, she wasn't going to be taken too, even if it meant being reunited with the TARDIS. She would save the TARDIS another way, but how and when, she didn't know. Her main imperative was to survive, to evade the enemy.

But even then, who the enemy was, wasn't as clear-cut as it seemed to be. The spider-like creatures had taken away the TARDIS, but one of their number had let her go, hence why she was being hunted down like a jackrabbit. But why did it do that? What was its motive? Head spinning with questions, Vivien slowed to a halt as she hit a dead-end, the sound of engines overhead drawing closer.

* * *

_Back Bay is lost._ Tom staggered back, looking like he'd been stabbed in the heart, Hal grabbing his arm, steadying him. Weaver strode forwards, past Tom, calling over his shoulder to the rear guard, "Seize the Skitter hugger."

Tom rushed to catch up with Weaver, falling into step with him as the Doctor was forced to follow at gunpoint, stumbling as a rifle butt made contact with the small of his back, his assailant spitting, "Put your hands behind your head, beatnik, where I can see 'em."

The Doctor did so, jaw tightening again, before taking one last regretful glance at the creature lying dead on the ground beside the remains of his sonic, earning him another blow, this time to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, body doubling up with pain. Hal frowned, looking like he was going to say something, the double-denimed man bellowing, "Keep out of it, boy," as one of the other members of the rear guard shoved the Doctor, making him move again, hissing, "Keep walkin', shitface."

From up ahead, Tom was talking low and urgently. "They take Back Bay, they take the city," he said, fists curling into balls at the thought.

"No kidding," Weaver said, darkly deadpan. He glanced over his shoulder again at the Doctor, face creasing with contempt, then confusion. Then he shook his head, dismissing the Doctor for the time being. "Porter's calling us in. Let's go."

Then the group faltered, gazes going skywards as an alien aircraft streaked through the night, emitting a silver ball of light, which hit the horizon, exploding, the Doctor lunging forwards, screaming, _Vivien! _as the world turned violet, silver, indigo, the howl of the wind drowning out the Doctor's screams.


	2. Prisoner

**Prisoner**

Blows were raining down on his body, fists, feet and rifle butts. After trying to break free of his captors, so he could go back and find Vivien, all hell had broken loose. But still he continued to struggle, screaming Vivien's name like a mad man.

"HEY! STOP IT! STOP IT!" Tom bellowed, breaking up the fight, pulling the men off the Doctor, helped by Hal. "Haven't you heard of the Geneva Conventions!?"

"They don' apply to this piece of shit," the double-denimed man spat.

Tom's jaw tightened. Weaver came over to them, the rear guard retreating, Tom and Hal standing their ground as he circled the Doctor, surveying the damage done to him. And there was a lot, with one eye already closing up, nose possibly broken, blood pouring from it like a fountain, lower lip bust, swelling like a balloon, the front of his suit torn.

"He speaks English," Weaver said to Tom, brow furrowing under his cap.

"Why wouldn't he?" Tom said.

"I dunno, I just thought he'd... he'd speak Skitter or something," Weaver shrugged.

"He doesn't just speak English, he _is _English," Hal pointed out.

"Some things never change," Weaver muttered. "No matter what happens, there will always be a red coat in our midst. Bloody lobster."

The Doctor sarcastically raised his eyebrows at this obscure historical reference, making Weaver turn away in disgust.

"Who's Vivien?" Tom then asked, stooping down so he was eye level with the Doctor.

The Doctor studied Tom for a long moment, his sarcastic expression fading into sadness. "I have to find her," the Doctor whispered, grabbing Tom's wrist. "She's all I have left."

Tom straightened up, pulling himself free of the Doctor's death grip with some difficulty, mind in turmoil. To Tom, _I have to find her _became _you have to find her_,a translation that troubled his conscience. But Weaver was unperturbed, eyes narrowing as he looked down at the Doctor like he was a piece of shit on his shoe.

"Your girlfriend is dead," Weaver said coldly, "and good riddance if she's anything like you."

The Doctor's gaze burned into Weaver's with an ancient hatred, making the hairs on the back of Weaver's neck stand up. He turned away again, anxious for the Doctor not to see his fear. But it was too late. The Doctor had already found it.

* * *

The Doctor was marched into the 2nd Massachusetts camp, past a makeshift barricade composed of foliage, tyres and crates stacked up in winding rows, creating narrow paths. The group fell into single file, a rifle butt nudging the base of the Doctor's bruised spine. The men manning the barricade eyeballed the Doctor with blatant hostile curiosity. A boy, about thirteen years old, with a grubby chubby face and greasy brown hair falling over bright blue eyes, emerged from behind a hedge, accosting Hal, who said tiredly, "What's up, Jimmy?"

"We holding? Who'd we lose?" Jimmy demanded

"Captain Jameson, Jerrod's cousin, a bunch of guys I didn't know," Hal said wearily, leading the group up some steps.

Jimmy faltered to a halt. "Jameson's dead? Who's gonna command the 2nd?"

Nobody answered him. When the Doctor brushed past him, Jimmy stared at his retreating back in confusion, calling after the group, "Whose the guy in the suit?"

Again, nobody answered him.

The Doctor was taken into some sort of outdoor holding, the place crowded and crushed, the wounded being lifted onto stretchers, people zipping up the flaps of tent entrances, others queuing up at an impromptu counter made of crates where unappetizing looking food was being doled out. Tom stopped, looking around, searching for somebody, Hal joining the soup line. The group continued without them, the Doctor being hurried on, led through the curious crowd, then across a suspended catwalk into a cramped dimly lit workroom filled with dusty old sewing machines, the windows smashed, the glass looking like broken teeth. The Doctor ran his tongue over his own, wincing at the taste of blood. Teeth were still all there though.

In a far corner, a group of men clad in military fatigues were talking, voices low and urgent. They fell silent, glancing up as the group came through the doorway. The eldest of the khakied men, Colonel Porter, white haired, bushy browed and silver moustached, stepped forward, his piercing gaze locking with Weaver's.

"Back Bay was lost, and they let go on South Boston. One of the big ones," Weaver said abruptly, no standing on ceremony.

"I told Reed small arms only. He had those AT4s. I guess he used them and pissed them off," Porter replied, looking put out.

Weaver pursed his lips, looking like he wanted to say a few choice words about Reed, only respect for the dead preventing him from doing so. Porter looked at him for a long moment, before turning to one of his companions, leaning down and whispering something in his ear. The man nodded, before saluting, turning smartly on his heel and leaving the workroom, barging past the Doctor as he was shoved into a corner, two of the rear guard training their rifles on him, the rest standing to attention behind Weaver. Porter's gaze flickered over the Doctor, taking him in from top to toe.

"Who's this?" Porter asked.

"Caught him down the back of an alley up near the Colton Street barricade. Was cradling a dying Skitter in his arms like it was his firstborn child. Never seen anything like it in my life," Weaver said, face disgusted.

Porter gaped at the Doctor before catching himself. "Well... well, was he on his own? I mean, is there others? Like - like him?" Porter stuttered, eyes round as saucers.

"I believe he had a... female associate. Vivien or something. But she got blown up with the rest of South Boston, thank the Lord."

The Doctor lunged forwards, the room exploding into uproar, men shouting, raising guns, those already raised having their triggers almost pulled.

"AT EASE! AT EASE!" Porter bellowed, waving his arms like a windmill. "PUT DOWN YOUR GODDAMN WEAPONS! NOW!"

Reluctantly his order was obeyed. Porter stepped in front of the Doctor, almost like a human shield. "This man is not to be harmed, do you hear me?" he intoned, looking round at their mutinous faces.

"It's a bit late for that, ain't it, Colonel?" one of the men sneered, motioning to the Doctor's battered visage. "If you want though, we can finish off what we started" -

- "What did I just say, soldier?" Porter said dangerously.

The man bowed his head, shoulders hunching, eyes resentful.

Weaver stepped forwards, ready to take up the rebellion, but Porter halted him with his hand. "Information is power, Weaver," Porter said, eying the Doctor as though he was a slice of cake he'd very much like to eat. "And this man... well, this man might just be our Fountain of Knowledge."

Weaver bit his lip, struggling to choke down his subversion, pissed off at Porter's plans and his cliché comments. But he held his tongue all the same, respecting the chain of command as every good soldier should. A timid knock disturbed the silence, making them all turn around. Tom was standing the doorway, knuckles hesitantly half raised over the wooden doorframe.

"Come on in, Tom," Porter said, beckoning him in.

Tom entered, glancing nervously at the Doctor despite himself.

"You've met then?" Porter said, noting the way the Doctor was watching Tom.

"Sort of," Tom replied.

"Well, he's not to be harmed, do you hear me? If he's hand in glove with the Skitters, well, that kind of intel is priceless, so I need him in one piece."

"What, you want us to question him?" Tom hazarded.

"Obviously," Porter said, all but rolling his eyes.

"But if he doesn't talk..."

"And you don't want us to lay a finger on him..." Weaver said, catching up the tail end of Tom's sentence, making Tom glare at him for twisting his words. But Weaver ignored him, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, making Porter look sharply at him.

"What did I just say, Weaver?" Porter said coldly, stepping forwards.

"I heard you, sir, but like I said..."

Porter turned away from him, addressing the whole room instead. "He's in protective custody until I see fit to change that status. Anybody lays a finger on him without an ironclad reason to do so, will be court-martialled. Is that understood?"

He looked round at them all, face stern. They all nodded, albeit unwillingly. The Doctor was led away from the room, disliking the gleam in Porter's eye as he watched him leave.

* * *

Tom stood there as Porter paced the floor, voice a monotone, drilling into Tom's skull. But he wasn't listening, remembering instead what Porter had said earlier, that the city was lost, the camp on the move again, splitting into units, going to ground where they could hide and scavenge. Already there had been an argument over leaving the city, Weaver surprisingly siding with Tom against the idea, even though their reasons for doing so were different as night and day. Weaver seen retreat as a tactical mistake, whilst Tom's opposition was more personal, not wanting to leave the city because of the harnessed kids that would be left behind, including his second eldest son Ben.

However, Porter had opposed them both in turn. He stated the city had been picked clean of weapons and food, but more worryingly that the aliens' aerial sensors were beginning to pick up units of five to six hundred humans. Yet still Weaver persisted in his argument they had to stay and fight. And still Porter carried on regardless, calmly outlaying his plan to split into units of three hundred, one hundred fighters and two hundred civilians each.

Then he'd dropped the bombshell he'd already sent out nine of these units, and that they were the last three, having instructed Anderson to take the 10th Massachusetts north along the shore until they got to Marblehead, whilst Sam had Jeffries as his second-in-command, moving north-west along Route 3 until they got to Revere, the third being the 2nd Massachusetts, with Weaver leading, replacing Jameson, Tom serving as his second-in-command.

That particular promotion had been the biggest bombshell yet, Tom thought, closing his eyes at the memory. He was a history professor for chrissake, not a soldier. All his military experience was limited to dates and facts, theory not practice. The only reason he had a rifle in his hand was because of the bizarre turn his life had taken, with spaceships appearing in the sky, descending on the Earth, invading, enslaving, slaughtering. Tom had his three sons to protect, and his wife's death to avenge by killing every alien he came across, and whilst he already held a position of authority within the 2nd Mass, to have it officially recognized and elevated was another thing altogether. He wasn't sure he could hack it.

"Are you even listening to a word I'm saying, Tom?" Porter asked sternly, breaking into his thoughts.

"I - I - yeah, I mean, no," Tom said, wincing. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"That man you found with the Skitter," Porter said slowly like he was speaking to an imbecile, "I want you to win his trust, get him to lower his guard."

"Me?" Tom sputtered.

"Yes, you," Porter said impatiently. "You are the only one he's spoken to so far. And don't think any of us didn't notice the way he was watching you as well."

"But that's because he thinks I'm a fool," Tom argued, recovering himself. "Hal and I were the only ones who didn't pull a gun out on him, and I stopped him getting his head kicked as well. If you look at it from his point of view, I'm the weak point; unprepared, soft-hearted" -

- "Don't underestimate yourself, Tom," Porter said, shaking his head at him. "You're tougher than you think, I've seen it. But my point is if he's spoken to you once, he'll do it again."

Tom nodded, swallowing hard.

"Now, I want the 2nd Mass to move west, to go to ground somewhere around Acton," Porter said, changing the subject.

"What do we do when the sensors start picking up groups of three hundred?" Weaver asked.

"We'll just break up into smaller units and continue," Porter replied, false teeth gritted now.

"But we have a chance against the aliens now," Weaver burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. "We might be up against a garrison but it's less than it was, and it will be even less when the mother ships come back."

"You're not getting the point, Weaver," Porter said, sounding at the end of his tether. "We can't fight the aliens unless we _know _how, which is why it's imperative to keep that man alive. If he's on the Skitters' side, some sort of traitor to the human race, there will be no end to the intel he could provide us with, information that might prove fundamental when it comes to fighting these things."

"He could just tell you a pack of lies," Tom pointed out. "In fact, bringing him back here might have been a huge mistake. There could be a bunch of Mechs heading our way right now because of him."

Porter just looked at him, something flickering behind his eyes, something Tom couldn't decipher the meaning of. "When he talks, I want you to listen," Porter then said quietly. "Whatever he says, will be the answer we're seeking."

"We don't need an answer," Weaver snapped. "We need to fight and we already _know _how to."

"No, we don't," Porter said, "nobody does, and that's the problem. This man could be the weak link in the chain, the opening we've been searching for. But we can't place all our bets on the one horse. So that's why we're going to split up, and we're gonna run, and we're gonna hide, and we're gonna survive. The food stores have been marked on the maps. As of last week's recon, they were all intact and secure. We're going to move out in the morning, and that's the end of it, Weaver. I won't brook any more arguments."

Weaver's jaw tightened, but he saluted Porter smartly, before turning and stalking out of the room, Tom watching him go, eyes worried.

"Jim," Tom said hesitantly. "I don't want to speak out of line but I think it's a mistake to give Weaver non-combatants."

"It had to be Weaver," Porter says coldly. "Man has eight years active Army, six years reserve. I saw him operate in Desert Storm. But your point is noted, which is why I'm charging you with the responsibility of the civilians, of keeping them safe."

Tom nodded, shoulders hunching slightly at the prospect of further responsibility.

"And another thing, Tom," Porter said suddenly, making Tom glance up sharply. "If some miracle happened, and you found this Vivien, I want her alive. She may prove more... pliable than her associate, being the weaker sex. A little exertion might loosen her tongue more than it would his."

Tom just stared at Porter, taken aback at his words and plans. His viewpoint on Vivien struck Tom as being naive and chauvinistic, as well as being strategically erroneous, completely underestimating the enemy and what they were capable of. And this talk of torture was making his skin crawl. Fine, she was probably fraternizing with Skitters, but she was still human, and somebody had to be better than the monsters they were fighting.

* * *

_Bloody fucking dead-end. Cursing, I turn on the spot, searching for a way out, only to hear the dull roar of engines overhead. I glance up, confused, before seeing a silver ball of light arc though the night sky. Shit. Seen too many airstrikes, human or otherwise, to mistake it for something as harmless as a firework. Diving forwards, I fling up the lid of a nearby metal dumpster, scrambling over its side with some difficulty, before landing face first in a pile of stinking, rotting rubbish. Spitting out a decomposing banana skin, I pull the dumpster lid down over my head, just as the silver ball of light strikes the ground. _

Vivien came to, head reeling, lying fifty feet away from she had been originally. Smoke clogged the air, flames casting amber shadows, the silence overwhelming. She tried to sit up, only to find her legs were trapped under the metal dumpster, the rest of her completely covered in rotting stinking rubbish. With great difficulty, she pulled herself free, bones feeling almost but not quite broken, before crawling through the debris like a cockroach, coughing and choking her guts up.

She'd only covered a few feet of distance before her body gave up the ghost. Collapsing face down amongst the rubble, she lay there for a while, trying to catch her breath. Memories flashed though her mind: the Doctor gone; the sound of metallic footsteps and static; the TARDIS being taken; the spider-like creatures; the horror of being hunted down like a dog. Panic flooded her, swiftly followed by terror, lending her false strength, propelling her to her feet, only for her legs to give way under her once more. Panic bubbled up again, but she pushed it down, trying to get a grip, forcing herself to focus.

Looking round her, she tried to make sense of her surroundings. But all there was, was complete carnage, utter destruction. Once where there were buildings, there was only smouldering ruins. She stared at the wreckage, wondering with faint awe at herself surviving such slaughter. But as for logic, all she could reason was that her pursuers obviously wanted her dead or they wouldn't have bombed where she was into smithereens. Now she knew for sure they didn't want to take her alive, but at the same time, they'd unwittingly given her a get out of jail card. If they thought she was dead, blown into a thousand pieces, she was no longer being hunted. That didn't mean she could drop her guard, but hey, she was no longer America's Most Wanted.

A manic laugh escaped her lips at this thought, her grip on reality beginning to slip. Then it was going, going, gone from her. She collapsed onto her back, staring almost unseeingly up the sky. Flames flickered and blurred, the stars dimming, dying. The world reeled above her, then darkness fell, pulling her under, a whirling, swirling, vortex, and again, she was no more, unaware of the red-eyed gaze watching her from the shadows.

_Dead ends hide on every street_  
_Look before you place your feet_  
_Cracks and fissures keep the beat_  
_And you're inside it..._

* * *

"So the Continental Army is fighting the English again?" Dr. Anne Glass asked, eying the Doctor with some distaste, before almost but not quite flirtatiously raising an eyebrow at Tom as she finished cleaning the blood from the Doctor's face. His nose wasn't broken and there were no missing teeth, his lip already starting to heal, and with the barest hint of a black eye, the rest of him was merely bruised and battered. He seemed hardy to Anne, peculiarly so. The kind of beating Tom said he'd undergone should have led to a few broken ribs at least.

"There are your enemies, the Red Coats and the Tories. They are ours, or this night Molly Stark sleeps a widow!" Tom declaimed sarcastically. "Talk about history repeating itself," he added darkly, gaze travelling over the Doctor sitting there, hands bound behind him, face unreadable.

"You have no idea," the Doctor said quietly, still staring ahead at some unseen point. Tom and Anne exchanged a glance, and then Anne pulled out her stethoscope, slipping its buds into her ears. Stooping down, she checked the Doctor's chest, frowning slightly. She moved the small disc along the front of his suit, eyes widening, all the blood draining from her face. She slowly stood up, removing the buds from her ears, staring at the Doctor as though he'd just sprouted horns.

"What is it?" Tom said, alarmed.

Anne turned to face Tom, her body swaying slightly on the spot. "His heart," she whispered_. _"His... _hearts._"

Tom stared at her, before snatching the stethoscope out of her shaking hands. Anne backed away, crashing into the table as she went. Tom hastily thrust the buds into his own ears, falling to his knees as he pressed the small disc to the Doctor's chest, hearing the echo of another heartbeat. His own heart now beating hard in his chest, he slid the disc as Anne had done, over the front of the Doctor's torn suit, following the echo back to its source, the beat now steady and loud. And all the while, the Doctor sat there, unmoving, uncaring.

Tom looked up at Anne, his face now resembling a corpse's. "He's... he's not human," Tom managed to choke out.

"But how?" Anne whispered, collapsing down onto a chair.

"Some - some sort of new alien experiment?" Tom hazarded, trying and failing to get to his feet, his legs having been reduced to jelly.

"I'm not the by-product of some experiment," the Doctor said, sounding insulted, a spark of life returning to his eyes. "I was born this way, as Lady Gaga so wisely said."

"But _how?_" Tom asked, echoing Anne's earlier words. "You... you look _human_."

"We came first," the Doctor shrugged.

"Who came first?" Anne demanded, recovering her nerve. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the Doctor," he said, eyes now dancing with a devilish light, "that's who."

_Potion delirium, mayflower surrender_  
_In the dark no one knows who you are_  
_Taxidermy play dead, and best of all_  
_I wasn't laughing at anything in particular_

* * *

"Do you not realise what we've just done?" Weaver exploded as Porter circled the Doctor now sitting on a stool in the middle of the heavily guarded workroom, surrounded by soldiers and sewing machines long silent. "We've brought an alien into the heart of our camp! An alien, Jim, a goddamn _alien_!" He was beyond angry, beyond protocol, losing all sense of proper formalities. But Porter was like a child at Christmas, all he could see was what Santa Claus had brought him, a real live alien at his complete mercy.

Weaver turned away from the sickening sight of Porter gloating, before suddenly veering to the left, hand flying to his chest, eyes scrunching up with pain. Tom grabbed his arm, worried, but Weaver shook him off, muttering something incomprehensible. Tom retreated, still feeling like his world had been turned upside down. He'd defended this Doctor, shielded him, even felt slightly sorry for him against his better judgement.

But there was a difference between a Skitter sympathiser and an alien, and that difference was human. He'd stuck his neck out for a reason, because he thought he was aiding a fellow human being, trying to ensure justice would be properly delivered, rather than a kangaroo court taking control, killing the man on the spot. But what he thought was a man, wasn't a man after all; someone who was something else altogether, something that sided with what had killed his wife, tearing the heart out of his family.

"It's like Tom said, there could be a bunch of Mechs heading our way right now," Weaver was arguing. "That - that _thing_ could bring the Skitters down on us, Jim. Hell, it might have been a trap laid for us, a complete set-up!"

"There is no trap," the Doctor said coldly, staring at Tom even though he was addressing Weaver. "And there's nothing coming, nothing to do with me anyways." The brutal truth present in his words only served to stir up more panic, rather than reassure. If he wasn't with the enemy, why was he here? Nobody present could conceive of a benign alien. They could only attribute a malicious intent to his presence. The Doctor glanced contemptuously around the workroom, all too aware of their fearful thoughts. Only Porter was unaffected by the storm unfolding, looking like the cat that had got the cream. Any minute now, he would start licking his moustache, Tom thought darkly.

"If he's an alien," Anderson asked, stepping forwards, "how come he looks so human?"

The Doctor burst out laughing. "_As if!_" he said, sounding incredulously insulted, startling them all.

"He said he was an alien, born and bred," Tom replied after a brief pause, shaking himself back into semblance.

"But that could be a lie, something to throw you off the scent," Anderson said, shooting the Doctor a wary glance.

"What do you mean?"

"This could be a new alien offensive," Anderson explained. "Another way of harnessing, except for adults this time."

"But he's not harnessed," Tom said slowly, looking like he was struggling to reconcile two colliding viewpoints. "Not as far as we know. Certainly he doesn't have any of these things on his back. And he seems to be acting on his own will, not another's. He's his own man." As soon as he said this, Tom could have bitten out his tongue.

"That's no man, Tom," Weaver growled.

"It doesn't matter," Porter said, stunning them all.

"Excuse me?" Weaver sputtered.

"This... this being," Porter said, inclining his head at the Doctor almost politely, "is not to be harmed, do you hear me?"

Weaver just gawped at him.

"We can't keep him here, Jim," Tom said, unable to believe what he was hearing. "He's an alien; he was caught helping a Skitter for chrissake" –

- "It was frightened," the Doctor spat. "Frightened and dying."

"It and its kind are destroying this planet," Tom spat back, "enslaving our children" –

- "I bear your species no ill-will," the Doctor retorted. "I have no intentions of harming anyone, human or otherwise."

"Told you he was a beatnik," Weaver muttered, returning back to life.

"And I tell you, he could be lying," Anderson reiterated, turning on Porter.

"I'm surprised you haven't heard of me," the Doctor said with a frown to Porter, ignoring Anderson. "I've had dealings with the Yanks before. Surely there must be a record of me somewhere?"

"Nothing of that kind exists anymore," Porter said, "none that we have access to anyways."

"But aliens, surely that's nothing new?" the Doctor pressed.

"What, before the current conflict?" Porter said frowning.

"Daleks. Cybermen. Ring a bell? Ding-a-ling?"

"Any previous suspected alien contact was either faked or created by hallucogenics administered by terrorists on a mass scale," Porter explained. "Until now, we have always believed we were alone in the universe."

The Doctor almost laughed in the old man's face before catching himself in time. It wasn't the human's fault he believed such fairytales spun by his superiors. Those high-up had hidden the truth, probably for what they considered the greater good, protecting humanity from the unknown, yet look where it had gotten them, on their knees.

"Why do you speak with an English accent?" Tom asked suddenly.

"What, finding it hard to get your head around an Anglo-Saxon alien?" the Doctor said, waggling his eyebrows, enjoying himself now. "And there's me thinking, 'the rebels are not the despicable rabble too many have supposed them to be'."

"For 'they never showed such conduct, attention, and perseverance as they do now'," Tom finished, looking taken aback. "General Gage, yeah?"

"Lovely man," the Doctor reminisced. "Even lovelier hat."


	3. Tibik-kìzis

**Tibik-kìzis**

Tom brought the Doctor a bowl of oatmeal and a bottle of water, not exactly sure what extra-terrestrials ate, whether this one even ate at all. But the Doctor just averted his face, staring at the ground instead. He'd spent all night in the workroom, surrounded by soldiers, their whispers and rifles aimed in his direction. Every instinct to run and find Vivien had been subdued, for he knew they'd open fire on him on the slightest provocation. Porter might be in charge, but revenge was the real master they would obey in the end. In a way he couldn't blame them; he understood revenge, but at the same time, he sought to escape its yoke, whilst they willingly embraced it.

So he'd sat it out, his thoughts never far away from Vivien, hoping against hope she was still safe in the TARDIS, sleeping under the stars, his coat draped over her shoulders. They'd spent many a night under other distant stars, stars no human had ever beheld before, constellations that called to something in Vivien, both of them unfettered, free, yet mere ghosts of themselves. He imagined her ebony hair falling across her pale face, the way her brow furrowed even in sleep, and something inside him cracked. Tom noted the anguish in the alien's eyes, and despite himself, he wondered at how it could feel; how it could experience such _human_ emotion.

Porter came into the workroom, shadowed by two soldiers. He looked tired; even his moustache was drooping. "Has he said anything?" Porter asked Tom, glancing at the Doctor with that odd satisfaction that disturbed Tom so.

"No," Tom replied, trying to hide his discomfort. "And I don't think he's going to. He's intelligent; he knows whatever else he says will be doubted; that we don't believe anything he's said so far, never mind in the future."

"I believe him," Porter said shortly. "At least, I believe he's an alien and that his presence won't bring the Mechs and Skitters down on us."

"But we're not really believing _him_, are we?" Tom said. "We're just going by what we're seeing, by what's happening. He has two hearts and an amazing ability to self heal - his injuries are all but gone. Nothing's came after him, so we can assume he's no longer in contact with the Skitters at least."

"No, he said he was an alien," Porter reiterated, "and I believe him."

Tom just looked down at the tops of his scuffed boots. One part of him thought Porter was an old fool, deluding himself into thinking he had scored a victory against the enemy, whilst the other part believed as Porter believed, that the Doctor really was an alien, his capture a major coup for the 2nd Mass, the breakthrough they had been desperately searching for. But the Doctor's presence was causing panic amongst the civilians, even the soldiers and fighters. It wasn't just about him being an alien, but the fact he didn't _look _like one. Mechs and Skitters looked like something from another world; the Doctor didn't.

"And anyways, it doesn't really matter if he says anything or not," Porter said almost dreamily, staring down at the Doctor, something in his voice making the hairs on the back of Tom's neck stand up.

"But you said..." Tom protested, remembering what Porter had said of this obscure Vivien and how she might talk under torture when the Doctor wouldn't.

"Forget what I said," Porter said, irritated, snapping out of his reverie. "I just want him alive."

Tom just nodded, bewildered. Things were escalating out of control; at first the Doctor wasn't to be harmed because he was human, which Tom understood, but now the Doctor was to be kept alive because he was an alien, something Tom couldn't comprehend. Porter studied the Doctor for a long moment before beckoning Tom to follow him out of the workroom, the two soldiers accompanying them. "I'm moving out this morning, as you know," Porter said, "reconnecting with my med and science people."

Something in the way he said this made Tom look sharply at him, sensing something in the wind, but Porter carried on, unperturbed. "But I'm not taking the Doctor with me," he said. "He's going with you."

"What?" Tom said, astonished that Porter would leave his prize prisoner behind, out of his sight and protection.

"I'm entrusting him to you."

"Jim..."

"Keep him alive, Tom," Porter said abruptly. "And that's an order."

* * *

Porter and the other two units moved out that morning, Porter hammering the message home again that the Doctor was to be kept alive. Tom had wondered how the hell that order was meant to be enforced when everyone from Weaver to the smallest child in the camp stared at the Doctor with murderous intent in their eyes. All their hatred now had a focus, centring on this tall man in his ridiculous suit and sideburns, the alien who looked human. It made more sense for Porter to take the Doctor with him, rather than leaving him behind.

The 2nd Mass were now making their own preparations to move out, the outdoor holding now a hive of activity and action. In the midst of all this, the Doctor was being led up a ramp that opened out onto the open road, his thin frame flanked by two fighters, Weaver's men, civilians not soldiers, battle hardened by loss and hate. As he passed by, people stopped what they were doing, watching his progress with revulsion, somebody shouting out,_ alien scum! _another, _you should be put down! _

The Doctor walked on, gaze focused on the far horizon. People started booing and hissing like they were at a particularly bad pop concert, something shoelike flying past his head, but he didn't even flinch. This was small town stuff compared to being led into the Roman arena. He would take this over being fed to the lions anytime.

Tom was further up ahead, kneeling down beside a little boy perched on a crate, his small shoulders hunched, face petulant, fair hair falling into his dark eyes; eyes the exact same shade as Tom's. Tom was trying to reason with the child, who was having none of it, crossing his arms over his chest. Tom glanced up as the Doctor and his entourage passed, his gaze meeting the Doctor's, before hastily looking away.

They then approached a battered looking vehicle that looked like it was on its last legs. A man had his head under the hood, cursing as he wrestled with the engine. A woman with longish curling grey hair sat in the front seat, her wrinkled face bearing an expression of martyred patience. The Doctor slowed down as they passed, calling out, "It's probably the carburettor." The man peered up at him, curiosity mixing with fear and dislike. The Doctor sighed heavily, before stumbling as one of the fighters struck him in the back with the butt of his rifle.

"Keep movin'," the fighter grunted, and the Doctor had no choice but to do so. He walked on, attention then caught by a small mountain of abandoned books looming up in the near distance. Some had been packed into piles of stacked up cardboard boxes, most just left lying on the ground amongst the wreckage and rubble. As he was marched past them, he craned his neck, trying to read the titles, but the fighter on his left clipped him round the head, forcing him to face forwards again.

* * *

Vivien woke up with a jolt, her forehead bouncing off something oddly hard but squidgy at the same time, nearly knocking her out all over again. The something stirred, chittering in complaint to itself, before falling silent once more. Vivien stared up at the mottled green underside of the something above her, a scream clawing its way up her throat. She choked it down, trying to hold herself together, eyes darting from side to side for an escape route. But all she seen was legs, forming bars like a cage. Whatever it was, it had her trapped, like a hen sitting on an egg. Terror and astonishment battled each other for supremacy, astonishment winning.

She just lay there, trying to wrap her head round it all. When this didn't work, she tried pulling what she could remember of the past together, fast forwarding to when she was reduced to rubble amongst the ruins, the stars dimming above her. Scrunching up her eyes, she tried to remember what came afterwards, but all she could conjure up was a vague recollection of being poked sharply in the side by something claw like, then being hoisted upwards before the darkness claimed her again. She opened her eyes, staring up once more at the underside of the creature that held her captive in some sort of maternal thrall.

Rallying her courage, Vivien cleared her throat, making the creature return back to life, raising itself on its spiderlike legs before slowly side-stepping away from her, allowing Vivien to sit up. She looked around, hugging her knees to her chest, feet aching, crusted with blood; trying and failing not to be scared as several pairs of lizard-like eyes met hers. With a shock, she recognized one of them as the creature from the warehouse, the left hand side of its face even more horrifically scarred up close. She also realised it was the one that had been nesting over her.

The scarred creature tilted its head to the side, almost querying, before suddenly lashing out. Reacting on pure reflex, Vivien threw herself sideways, crashing into some crates, before landing heavily on her side. Head spinning, she tried to crawl away from the creatures, but she was cornered, surrounded, their claws clicking, voices chittering and hissing, then the static flooded her mind, invading, suffocating, deafening. The sound of screeches and caterwauling echoed through the caverns of her consciousness. She was sinking, sinking, sinking...

"Stop! For God's sake, stop!" she begged, feeling her subconscious starting to slip away. To her shock, everything suddenly fell silent. Vivien raised her head, staring at the creatures in confusion, the scarred one raising its front leg or arm - she wasn't sure - slowly this time, reaching out to her with its clawed appendage. Through the fear, she kept very still, scrunching up her eyes, hoping the end would be quick. To her even greater shock, the claw didn't dash her brains out, but actually stroked her hair, the scarred creature making strange chittering noises which sounded oddly comforting.

Vivien opened her eyes, not quite believing what was happening. Then there was a short explosion of hissing from somewhere behind her, but still she didn't move a muscle, only watching as the creatures scattered, the scarred one falling back as well, staring at Vivien with daunting maternal devotion in its odd eyes. She couldn't say for sure, but she thought it was female. As she sat there, the creatures started to surround her again, all careful to keep their distance this time, heads constantly tilting from side to side. They were watching her again, expectation now heavy in the air. What they expected, she didn't know, but she supposed she couldn't sit on the floor forever.

She unsteadily got to her feet, turning to face with some trepidation whatever was intimidating the others. It was another creature, its right eye completely red, the infection spreading through its veins, starting to colour its skin crimson. This one looked to be a male, but again, she couldn't say for sure. It raised itself up on its back legs, towering over her, trying to intimidate or so it seemed to Vivien. She stood her ground regardless. Then the static struck once more, making her fall to her knees, hands hopelessly clamped over her ears.

As though from far away, feet skittered across the floor; then a warning screech, the answering screech angry and outraged. The static stopped. Vivien raised her head, feeling like she was going to throw up, only to find the scarred creature standing in front of her, the red-eyed one clicking its claws, the two of them locked in some sort of stand-off. Vivien got to her feet again, head reeling. She staggered forwards, making the scarred creature turn to face her. Vivien held her hands up, trying to convey the message she wasn't a threat. The scarred creature stepped aside, almost unwillingly it seemed to Vivien.

She approached the red-eyed creature, hands still raised. She spoke, trying to keep her voice steady. "I mean you no harm," she began. Red-Eye just glared at her, claws still clicking. "The static and the screeches in my head," she continued, voice starting to shake now, "if - if that's you trying to talk, I don't understand - I can't communicate with you like that, through my mind. It hurts too much, so... so please stop trying to, alright?"

Red-Eye tilted its head, claws finally silent. Vivien dropped her hands to her sides, hoping they were meeting on some sort of middle ground. "I have to find my friend," she said slowly. "Have you seen him? Tall, wears a suit? Awful sideburns?"

Red-Eye edged forwards. "Have you seen him?" she repeated. Suddenly the static returned, making her double up, hands clutching the sides of her head. Again, as swiftly as it started, it stopped. She looked up, stars exploding in front of her eyes, Red-Eye's face contorted with frustration and confusion.

"You don't understand why I can't understand you, do you?" Vivien spat. "I'm receiving but not responding, yes? Well, get this, Flubber, I'm not a bloody radio, alright? This isn't CB Central."

Red-Eye just hissed, sounding exasperated.

"Screw you!" Vivien snapped, making Red-Eye rear up on its back legs again, claws clicking threateningly. She turned to leave, only to find her way blocked by the scarred creature and its companions. "Let me pass!" Vivien cried, trying to barge past them, only to go flying as something trunk-like slammed into her chest, knocking the wind out of her.

She hit the merciless ground, limbs asprawl, completely stunned, feeling like her ribs were broken. A set of angry screeches raged overhead, punctuated by skittering feet, clicking claws, and then the floor started to shake, a low droning sound drilling into her skull, the stomping of metallic footsteps making the creatures fall silent, some of them whimpering. Then Red-Eye was looming over her, static attacking her mind, but through the pain, she sensed there was a warning amongst the chaos; a warning meant for her.

* * *

The Doctor dragged his feet as they walked up the steep hill, fighting the urge to break free and run. That's all he wanted, to run all the way back to South Boston and find Vivien, so she could laugh at him for being a sentimental old fool. He had to make a break for it sooner or later, so why not now? But common sense urged discretion, for the time being anyways. But the logic of common sense was becoming harder and harder to follow.

The 2nd Mass continued to move slowly, a motley procession of vehicles, motorbikes and people on foot, carrying children, backpacks, weapons; pulling shopping bags on wheels, or pushing bicycles and supermarket trolleys laden with black bags. The man from earlier had managed to get his engine working, the car now creaking along at a snail's pace, the back seat piled high with cardboard boxes.

Tom was just up ahead, falling into step beside a woman in a seersucker coat, the rich reddish mahogany highlights of her long hair flashing like fire in the sun. It took the Doctor a moment before he recognized her as Dr. Anne Glass. The woman who had discovered who he really was, he thought with ironic relish. His gaze flickered lazily over her. She looked different with her hair down, he mused idly, watching as Tom brushed something from Anne's shoulder, the gesture unconsciously intimate.

For a while, he studied the way Tom kept stooping down to listen to something Anne was saying, their conversation coloured by the constant wide curve of Anne's smile, then Tom's answering boyish grin. Growing bored with the ridiculous mating dance humans so liked to indulge in, the Doctor glanced around him, properly this time, taking in the lush green verdure and majestic houses spanning the sloping streets.

"This is Bartlett Hill," the Doctor said in surprise, making Tom glance over his shoulder at him, brow furrowing.

"Shut up," the fighter to the left of him spat. "This ain't a sightseein' tour."

"About four hundred years ago, this was all Pennacook settlement," the Doctor continued, as though the fighter hadn't spoken. "Merrimack people. Algonquian speaking. Called me Tibik-kìzis which means moon by the way. Smallpox sadly wiped them all out in the end though."

"Wish I could wipe you out," the other fighter said dangerously.

"Like chalk off a blackboard," the Doctor replied, waggling his eyebrows.

* * *

Vivien slowly sat up, only to find herself nose to nose with Red-Eye. Immediately she remembered the metallic stomping feet; the static and the warning. Red-Eye tilted its head to the side once more, making Vivien spring to life. "Don't," she said quickly, head still spinning. "Just don't. I get it. It's too dangerous for me to go out there, not with these metal things jiving about anyways."

Red-Eye chittered.

"What the hell does that mean?" Vivien exclaimed, feeling like she was banging her head off a brick wall. "Yes? No? Or something totally random like will you marry me?"

Red-Eye chittered again.

"Well, if it does mean that, the answer is no," Vivien says. "I prefer bipeds - no offense," she added hastily.

Red-Eye studied her for a long moment, before turning and side-stepping away, gait awkward. The scarred creature stepped forwards, eyes filled with that frightening devotion again. Vivien gazed at it, thinking she preferred Red-Eye's painfully blunt approach to this weird veneration. The scarred creature gazed at her in return, almost like it was waiting for her to say something. Vivien ran her hand through her tangled hair, perplexed.

"Erm... thanks," she said, suddenly inspired, "you know, for defending me back there."

The scarred creature tilted its head à la Red Eye. Vivien wasn't sure if it understood a word she was saying though. Suddenly something came spinning across the filthy floor towards her, striking her foot. Looking down, she was surprised to see it was a half empty bottle of water. Then something smacked her in the side of the head, knocking her sideways. All the creatures started chittering, almost laughing. Clutching her head, she snatched up what had hit her. It was a chocolate bar, crushed in the middle.

Vivien glanced up, her gaze meeting Red-Eye's. It inclined its head, before waving its front leg or arm - she still didn't know which was which - and leading a small group of the creatures up some steps. There was the sound of hinges creaking in protest, skittering feet, and then a door clanging shut. The scarred creature sat down in front of Vivien, carefully tucking its legs away, looking at her expectantly with its lizard-like eyes. These beings didn't seem to do much apart from tilt their heads and eye her expectantly; either chittering away or clicking their claws like castanets, Vivien thought irritably. But she took the hint and tore open the chocolate wrapper, feeling like she was five years old again, being force-fed Brussels sprouts.

The remaining creatures scuttled up the walls and over the ceiling, making Vivien freeze. She watched wide-eyed as they settled into position, hanging upside down like bats, eyes fluttering shut. The scarred creature gently poked her in the arm, looking pointedly at the chocolate bar, then Vivien. Getting the message, Vivien unwillingly took a bite, the chocolate melting into toffee, locking her jaw together as she chewed. This was going to be a long day.

* * *

The 2nd Mass stopped outside a Sundash in Belmont, vehicles slowing to a halt, people swarming towards the storefront. The Doctor was forced to sit down on the edge of the sidewalk, fighters standing around him in a foursquare. A group led by Anne, went into the Sundash, covering their noses with hankies or their hands as the stink of rotting fruit polluted the air.

As they sifted through what was left of the food, the Doctor made a point of inhaling and exhaling enthusiastically, as though he was enjoying fresh mountain air. Anne, who was standing by the door, stacking tins into a cardboard box, her nose tucked into her shoulder, shot him a funny look, but the young woman beside her, almost smiled, her grin cut short by Weaver who descended on her like a dark cloud.

"What are you smirking at, Lourdes?" he asked, trying to keep his temper under control, knowing full well what she was smirking at. Lourdes shook her head, gaze now cast demurely to the ground. "Listen girl, he might be oh so funny and have a handsome face, but don't forget he's what killed your family," Weaver continued, looking like he was going to hit something, if not Lourdes.

There was a long silence, Anne glancing anxiously between Lourdes and Weaver, tins forgotten.

"I know," Lourdes then said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Weaver nodded abruptly, slightly mollified, before marching over to Tom standing outside nearby. Lourdes watched Weaver go before glancing at the Doctor again, her big brown eyes glittering with curiosity. The Doctor shot her a wink. Lourdes hastily ducked her head, her curtain of long dark hair falling across her hotly flushing face. Anne stared coldly at the Doctor, but he just raised his eyebrows questioningly in return, and she resumed packing her tins into their cardboard box, albeit with more force than before.

"That thing is trying to corrupt our women!" Weaver was exclaiming to Tom, who was amused against his will. "He's got Lourdes all goo-goo eyed over him, and as for Anne, well she acts like the ice maiden, but still waters run deep" -

- "That's enough," Tom said sharply, Weaver cutting cutting too close to the bone for his taste now. "I think your imagination is getting a bit carried away with itself" -

- "What, you really want his grubby little hands on your woman, huh?!" Weaver said, getting upset now. "Seducing Anne with his alien charm" -

- "Weaver!" Tom hissed, ears turning crimson. "I don't have a _woman_, alright, and as for Anne... that's completely out of the question!"

"You could have fooled me," Weaver said darkly, half turning away from Tom, eyes narrowing as he surveyed their surroundings for the umpteenth time.

Tom just gaped at him, before being distracted by Hal who was heading towards them on his motorbike.

"Every food store and cache between Belmont and Acton has been picked clean!" Hal hollered as he screeched past, not stopping, wheels kicking up a cloud of dust as he went.

"So, it's one of the ShopSmarts then, either the store in West Newton or the distribution centre in Watertown," Tom said, recovering himself as he turned to Weaver who was now pulling a map out of his back pocket, unrolling it.

"We can't go back, not with this group, too many, too slow," Weaver said, shaking his head.

"Maybe half your vehicles and half your fighters could go back, get the food, and then catch up with the rest of you later," the Doctor called from further down the sidewalk.

Tom and Weaver turned to look at the Doctor, who just beamed at them from behind the fighters' legs. Weaver strode down the sidewalk, cursing the Doctor under his breath, the fighters parting like the Red Sea as he drew level with them. He came to a halt in front of the Doctor, almost standing on him.

"Hello!" the Doctor said cheerily.

"This little expedition you're planning, who's gonna lead them? You?" Weaver said sarcastically, clenching his fists, crumpling up his map in the process. The Doctor just looked at him as though he was an imbecile, his gaze then sliding sideways as Tom stepped into the fray.

"No, me," Tom said quietly, making Weaver gawp at him.

"You wanna go back?" Weaver spluttered. "On the advice of this Skitter loving shit-pie?"

"Yes."

There was a long silence, then Weaver folded up his map, concentrating just a little too hard to make sure the edges were all in alignment. "Fine," Weaver then said from between gritted teeth. "But I'm only giving you the pick-up and six fighters."

Tom's jaw tightened. "Weapons?" he asked, trying and failing to keep his voice neutral.

"What you got, and as many mags as you can carry," Weaver replied, before turning and walking away from Tom.

"One of the RPGs?"

"No," Weaver hollered over his shoulder.

"Some C-4?"

"No!"

"All right, we'll make do," Tom muttered under his breath, before kicking a lamp-post, much to the Doctor's amusement.

People started piling out of the Sundash, laden with bags and boxes, Anne and Lourdes leading them over to the vehicles. Weaver stood at the top of the street, shouting orders, _follow the commuter rail west, _the Doctor being hauled to his feet again, _we'll meet at the Littleton Bridge. _Tom ran his hand over his beard, exhaling sharply.

"That's a nice beard by the way, though it could do with a trim," the Doctor said from behind Tom, making him whirl around.

"What is it with you?" Tom demanded, towering over even the Doctor who was no midget himself.

"What do you mean, Mephistopheles?"

Tom's face reddened at this particular folkloric jibe, but he forced himself to focus on the matter at hand.

"For starters, why do you keep sticking your oar in when it's not wanted or needed?"

"I'm just trying to help."

"We don't want or need your help, what part of that don't you understand?"

"Why are you doing what I suggested then?" the Doctor asked, raising his eyebrows.

Tom ran his hand over his face, trying and failing to control his temper, before whirling on the Doctor again. "What are you up to, huh?" he spat, face becoming blotchy with rage. "Are you setting some elaborate trap for the 2nd Mass or something?"

"I have no intention of making your sons orphans," the Doctor snapped, no longer light-hearted, but dark, angry.

"You keep my sons out of this."

"If you want them to survive, I suggest you keep following my advice."

"Yeah, when hell freezes over," Tom retorted, before turning and stalking down the sidewalk.

* * *

Vivien leant against the pillar, hugging her knees to herself. So far she'd spent what must have been the better part of the day snooping around, trying to sniff out what the hell was going on. All she'd worked out was that they were in a windowless basement, the place lit by bare light bulbs powered by a dodgy looking generator.

It had taken her five minutes flat to reach that conclusion, so she'd then dedicated a lot of time to watching the creatures, fascinated by them despite herself. They seemed to come and go in shifts, alternating between leaving and skittering around the basement, scaling its walls or suspended from the ceiling, sound asleep. They didn't seem to eat either, though she supposed they did this outside, perhaps hunting the local wildlife. She'd nervously wondered if humans came under that category.

The rest of the time had been spent alternating between being starving and thirsty, as well as trying to discreetly piss in the darkest furthest corner she could find, or attempting to teach Scarface Sally (as she'd dubbed the scarred creature) her name. This had been done partly out of boredom, and partly out of realising that even though the creatures chittered and hissed at each other, true communication was silent, swift; done through reaching out to one another through their minds.

Vivien had verbally tried to bridge the gap between her and Scarface Sally, but after firing a barrage of unanswered questions at the creature - _what are you, where are you from, why are you here, what's going on, is there a war, where is the TARDIS, it's a blue box, your kind took it away _- she had been reduced to trying to teach it her name. However, she'd reached the uncomfortable conclusion the creature just liked listening to her voice.

It had become quickly obvious to Vivien the TARDIS had shut herself down as a measure of self protection, no longer translating, just barely existing. And escaping to find her was out of the question, not with Scarface Sally watching her every move, like some scaly eight-legged bodyguard. The whole situation had Vivien bamboozled. The creatures had taken the TARDIS, maybe the Doctor too, and something had given the order to hunt Vivien down like a dog. Yet, here she was, being protected by those who had been hunting her, from those who still were. It just didn't add up.

Vivien got up, going over to sit on a crate instead. Red-Eye hadn't returned yet, and again, no other food was forthcoming. Yet just as she was thinking this, the door at the top of the stairs creaked open, Red-Eye filling the doorway, then descending the stairs in a sideways fashion, like he was about to break into a Fred Astaire routine. All he needed was a top hat and cane to complete the picture. He skittered over to her, dumping a blood-spattered trainer and a man's boot at her bare feet. She looked at them in disgust, then confusion, before realising what the shoes signified. She stood up, shaking her head.

"I'm not wearing that!" she protested. "I'll end up catching something."

Before she could react, Red-Eye grabbed her, somehow simultaneously keeping an iron grip on her whilst tearing the bottom of her camisole to shreds, reducing it to almost a crop top. Then she was being cast aside, crashing into the crate she had just been sitting on. She landed on her hip, heavily banging it in the process, the pain ricocheting through her like fire, Red-Eye looming over her again.

Time seemed to slow down, almost stopping. Then Vivien slowly got to her feet, Red-Eye watching her. She straightened up, pushing the hair out of her eyes, facing Red-Eye with rage in her heart. Girl and monster stared at each other, locked in a stand-off between the species, the tension becoming sky-high, the other creatures chittering nervously to one another, Scarface Sally circling the pair, clicking her claws anxiously. But even she knew better to interfere this time. Vivien then knelt down, snatching up the ragged crimson strips of silk, gaze still locked with Red-Eye's. He tilted his head, and that's when Vivien backed down, fearing the onslaught of static.

Without a word, she attempted to bind her bloodied feet to the best of her ability, before straightening up again, hunching her shoulders as she wrapped her arms around herself and her rags. Feeling uncharacteristically self conscious, her mind exaggerating the slight swell of her stomach, the faint thickening of her thighs and the wide curve of her hips, she stood there before Red-Eye, feeling oddly exposed, her falsely human frailties lying on the floor for all to see.

Two pregnancies had altered her body beyond recognition, shaping it into something else altogether. Yet youth had kept her figure largely in line in parts, losing control everywhere else. She no longer saw in the mirror the long lanky girl she used to be, but in this moment, her past and present were colliding together, making her feel as awkward and gangly as she did at twelve, yet as unfurled and unfocused as she did now at twenty.

"Where is the TARDIS?" she asked quietly, trying to hold onto the only home she ever had.

Red-Eye reared back, screeching, making the creatures scatter, Vivien remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear as his front legs crashed back onto the ground, Red-Eye thrusting his face into hers, the blast of rancid breath making her want to throw up. Then the static struck her again, making her drop like a stone to the floor, arms wrapped hopelessly around her head. Through the chaos, his wrath raged, cursing her stupidity, her ignorance, and at the heart of all this, was the TARDIS, the catalyst for his catastrophic anger, its very existence an insult to him. But despite this insight, she still didn't understand.

"Why?" she whispered, tears rolling down her face. "_Why? _"

Red-Eye just threw her a scornful look before turning and walking away, claws clattering across the floor.


	4. Asunder

**Asunder**

Darkness reigned, the moon nothing but a myth as Red-Eye carried Vivien through the ruins, followed by Scarface Sally and the others. Back at the basement, Vivien had reluctantly donned the dead-man shoes Red-Eye had brought her, grimly anticipating a long trek. However, as soon as she'd set foot outside, Red-Eye had unceremoniously swung her off her feet, cradling her body with an iron grip, as he travelled forth into the darkness.

They'd crossed paths with other contingents of creatures, chitters and screeches being exchanged between the two patrols, before heading their separate ways, a pattern that had been repeated through the long night. And whenever the ground shook, the silence shattered by a long piercing drone, they'd hidden in shadowed alleyways or the darkest bowels of underpasses.

As she'd played possum, Vivien had been forced to re-evaluate her position. Whatever had been hunting her, was still doing so, and they wouldn't stop until they found her, dead or alive. Her earlier exultation at thinking she'd escaped by outwitting the enemy through their own unwitting foolishness had been naive and ill-timed, not to mention incredibly stupid. No wonder Red-Eye treated her with scorn and contempt.

It never crossed Vivien's mind that Red-Eye and the others might be leading her into a trap; that she was being backstabbed. As far as she was concerned, these creatures were on her side, shielding her from what was hunting her, even if it was their own side that was doing the hunting. She wondered why they were helping her, but that was as far as her doubt went.

Red-Eye resented her for her blindness, her callowness. He resented her very presence, how it placed his carefully laid plans in jeopardy. He was only protecting her in order to protect his rebellion. But at the same time, he could only do so much. Keeping her close, away from the Espheni, was impossible. He had to lose her, but not at the enemy's gain, and the Espheni had gained an advantage already.

The Overlord who commanded the Espheni forces in the Eastern United States, had the blue box in his possession. The Espheni had sought the girl and her blue box for a long time now, for they were all that was left of now extinct ancient races, relics ready to be forged anew and wielded as weapons in the long war the Overlords were waging across the universe.

The blue box was well protected, not only through its own machinations, but by those of the Espheni as well. Even as they sought to subjugate, they also desired to preserve. But if the Espheni managed to find the girl and get past the blue box's shields and defences, events would escalate, the consequences engulfing everyone and everything in its path. And it would be all this girl's fault; she with her crude intelligence and animal cunning, only redeemed by a reckless bravery that demanded Red-Eye's respect even as he despised her.

All he could do was all but hand the girl over the rebellion being led by the humans. They already had the Time Lord in their custody, and one of his spies had told him the humans were scouting out an armoury in the area, so by leaving her here, she would be found by them. In all probability, she would probably die at their hands, along with the Time Lord, but it was better that way. The threat her very existence presented would be extinguished, and her blood wouldn't be on his claws.

He would regret the death of the Doctor though. The Espheni's indifference to the Doctor's presence on this planet played to Red-Eye's advantage. However it was an indifference Red-Eye didn't understand. The Doctor was the Oncoming Storm, the wanderer with death in his wake. The Espheni knew what he had done, what he was more than capable of doing. But still they discredited and discounted him as a threat.

Red-Eye didn't realise that it was arrogance that blinded the Espheni so. They had no time for fairytales or legends. And that was all the Doctor was to them, a man melded into myth. He was the last of Gallifrey, and Gallifrey was gone, its might turned to ash. All the power he had lay in the heart of his time machine, power they possessed now. The Doctor had nothing. They had reduced him to nothing.

* * *

"Do I look like I need a toilet break?" the Doctor said from between gritted teeth.

"I was just asking" -

- "And I'm just telling you that I don't!"

Tom turned away from the Doctor, before running his hand over his beard, wishing he was a hundred miles away. To put it mildly, the Doctor was literally doing his head in. Ever since they'd set up camp on the outskirts of Acton, (Weaver acquisitioning the houses as quarters for all military personnel, soldiers and fighters both; the civilians setting up base in a nearby meadow), the Doctor's presence had continued to cause chaos. Despite being kept isolated, out of sight and under guard, people were baying for his alien blood, and it had taken all of Tom's tact to talk them out of committing carnage.

"I'm troubling your conscience, aren't I?" the Doctor asked abruptly, interrupting Tom's tumultuous thoughts. "But then again, you _are _a man of conscience, so it's only to be expected I expect."

"Why would _someone_ like _you_ trouble my conscience?"

"Look at your choice of words, Tom."

Tom just stared at him.

"I'm _someone _to you," the Doctor explained, his face solemn, "not _something_."

Tom started to protest but the Doctor halted him with his bound hands. "You're the only one that's bothered to offer me food and water," the Doctor continued, "and you stopped these men from kicking my head in. Now you're here, twittering on about toilet breaks. Can I make myself any clearer?"

Tom's mouth just opened and closed like a trapdoor.

"Where are you heading now, Acton Armoury?" the Doctor then said conversationally, folding his hands in his lap.

"How do you know about that?" Tom said, finding his voice again.

"Little pitchers have big ears," the Doctor said cryptically.

There was a long silence. "We're not going to the armoury, not yet, anyways," Tom admitted against his will. "We're doing a food run."

"Ah, yes, the ShopSmart or the distribution centre," the Doctor remembered. "Well, just be careful out there."

Tom just stared at the Doctor again. "What do you want?" Tom exploded, feeling like he was being played like a violin. "What are you angling for?"

"My pocket."

"You're what?"

"My pocket, Tom!"

Against his better judgement, Tom stooped down, searching through the Doctor's pocket as he'd demanded, his worn fingers closing round a strip of paper that crackled as he pulled it out, the Doctor averting his eyes away from the past.

"You wanted to know who Vivien was. Well, that's her," the Doctor said, pain filling his face as Tom glanced down at the passport booth photos taken so long ago during happier times. He recognized the Doctor immediately, despite the top hat tilted over one eye, but the girl perched on his lap, pulling a series of ever more ridiculous faces as the pictures progressed on, was a complete stranger to Tom.

Yet as he studied her, she seemed oddly familiar, despite being so far from him. He ran his thumb thoughtfully over the crumpled paper, smoothing out the wrinkles. She wasn't pretty, but he was caught by her vivid colouring; the long ebony hair, crimson lips, ivory skin and indigo eyes making her seem like she had fallen straight out of the pages of a fairytale, Snow White torn asunder from her once upon a time.

"This is really Vivien, then?" Tom said, glancing up at the Doctor.

"Yes."

"Your friend?"

"Just my friend."

"She looks like a bit of a live-wire," Tom observed dryly.

The Doctor exhaled sharply through his teeth. "You have no idea," he said.

Tom raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Porter's interested in her, isn't he?" the Doctor said, cutting to the chase.

Tom nodded, unable to look the Doctor in the eye as he remembered Porter's talk about torture.

"You tell Porter I will co-operate fully with him in exchange for her guaranteed safety."

"But"-

- "No, buts, Tom. You just tell him what I said. He'll understand."

"What happens if Porter doesn't understand, huh?" Tom snapped this time, angry at himself for feeling guilty over a girl who allied herself with aliens. "What trick have you got up your sleeve to deal with that?"

The Doctor looked coldly at Tom. "You," he said quietly. "You're my next trick." Then the Doctor's face suddenly lit up, like a little boy confronted with Christmas. "Tom the Trick!" he said gleefully. "Now that could catch on!"

Tom just gawked at the Doctor before catching himself. "What the hell are you on? You really think I'm going to help a bastard like you?"

"I'm not asking you to help me, I'm asking you to help her."

"What?"

"I'm asking you to protect her, to take her under your protection, to protect her from Porter. Getting the message? Or do I have to repeat myself?"

Tom's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything else, his mind in turmoil.

The Doctor leant forwards, narrowing his eyes as he studied Tom for a long moment. Then he sat back in his seat, shoulders slumping, his face suddenly old and tired. "Whatever happens, she's just a girl," the Doctor said quietly. "You have to remember that, Tom; that she's just a girl and despite everything, that's all she is, a girl who's a hell of a long way from home."

* * *

Red-Eye lowered Vivien to the ground. He'd ran a huge risk hiding her in plain sight, but it had paid off, the other patrols believing her to be a captured youngling being taken for harnessing. Her youth had shielded her, but only from a distance, too close and the ruse would have been revealed. And they had been fortunate in managing to evade crossing paths with the metal drones still searching for her, as deception wouldn't have worked due to them having her data programmed into their A.I. core.

Vivien pushed the tangled hair out of her eyes, bones aching as she stepped forwards, her forehead creasing in confusion. They were at the edge of a wide expanse of wasteland. In the distance, rows of warehouses reared out of the darkness, surrounding them on all sides. All was still, all was silent and there was no sign of the TARDIS anywhere. She turned to Red-Eye, but he was nowhere to be seen, as were the other creatures. Only Scarface Sally remained, her head tilted expectantly to one side. Protests and questions rose to Vivien's lips, but something in Scarface Sally's face silenced her.

They were through with her. Whatever their agenda was, she was no longer part of it. She was on her own now. Tears filled her eyes, making her feel like a fool. Scarface Sally chittered softly, before reaching out and gently stroking Vivien's cheek, the creature's claw alarmingly scraping her skin. Vivien reached out in return, gingerly, then gently, patting the creature's head. She still found Scarface Sally's maternal devotion to her slightly scary, especially on such short acquaintance, but even as Vivien appreciated the risk these creatures had taken in hiding her, Sally had been the only one to show any real kindness towards her. And she'd been the only one to stay and say good-bye.

The creature inclined her head, before turning and slowly walking away, her gait awkward, belying her advanced years. Vivien watched her disappear into the shadows, angrily dashing her tears away with the back of her hand, cursing herself for being so sentimental. Being mawkish was just going to get her killed. Feeling like the ground had been cut away from under her feet, she shuffled towards the row of warehouses, figuring she had nothing to lose. The TARDIS had landed in a warehouse, maybe she was being kept prisoner in another. The creatures seemed to inhabit such places, so it made a sort of sense to keep what they stole close by. Maybe that's why Red-Eye had dumped her here, to point her in the right direction, except Red-Eye didn't exactly seem the charitable type.

And Vivien wasn't exactly sure either over what she was going to do if she found the TARDIS, especially if the blue box was surrounded by guards. Create a distraction? Try and make off with a time machine she had no idea how to operate? Alright, the Doctor had let her loose on the console a few times, but it had been under his strict supervision, just in case she crashed them into the Cretaceous Period or something. And she wasn't exactly in peak condition either.

Her body felt like it had done ten rounds with Tyson in the ring, and that wasn't including the hunger and thirst ravishing her stomach and throat. All she'd had to eat and drink for the past thirty six hours was a bashed in chocolate bar and half a bottle of dodgy looking water. Being a hybrid didn't mean she could survive for days on starvation rations.

Crushing down her doubts, she continued to shuffle towards the warehouses, every step feeling like she was walking on broken glass. She didn't realise she was doing exactly what Red-Eye had wanted her to do, to walk in on the 2nd Massachusetts as they scouted out the armoury, so she would fall into their hands instead of the Espheni's, another threat to the rebellion negated. However, Red-Eye had left too much to chance.

Wrapping her arms around herself, the cold night air cutting into her exposed skin, she rounded the side of the closest building, sticking to the shadows as she searched for a back door or even a window she could break in through. To her relief, her search was short-lived. Figuring she had to start somewhere, she reached out to turn the door-handle, hoping against hope it wasn't locked, thinking bitterly she could really use the sonic at this moment if it was.

Then she froze, the metal biting into the back of her neck.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, sweetheart," a man drawled, his American accent sugar-coating every syllable.

Vivien's hands dropped to her sides.

"Now turn around, nice and slow," the man then ordered.

Vivien did as she was asked, biting her lip to stop herself saying something that would end up resulting in a bullet between her eyes. True to form, she found herself staring down the barrel of a shotgun, its owner looking her up and down like she was a piece of shit on his shoe, his lips curling up into a sneer.

"Well, blue-eyes," he said, tossing his long brown hair back with cruel confidence, "it's been nice knowing ya."

* * *

Tom sat in the back of the parked pick-up, looking down at the strip of passport booth photos he was still clutching in his hand, Vivien's ridiculous face pulling making him grin despite himself.

"Hey, Tom," Weaver called, startling him. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Yeah, sure," Tom said, grin fading as Weaver stalked towards him.

"It's about that bastard beatnik," Weaver said, face grim. "I've been hearing tales of you sneaking food to him and such, dismissing his guards so you can have a cosy tête-à-tête with him. Care to explain what that's all about, eh?"

"Porter told me to keep him alive," Tom said, trying to keep his temper, "so I can't exactly let him starve, can I? And as for dismissing the guards, I was trying to get him to loosen up a bit, you know, so we could talk and... stuff."

Weaver eyed him suspiciously. "What kind of stuff?" he asked.

"Porter's interested in the girl, Vivien," Tom said with some difficulty. "Even though she's probably dead, I went to bend the Doctor's ear about her, but he pre-empted my plan and gave me this instead." He reluctantly held out the strip of photos to Weaver, who took them, brow furrowing as he studied them. "I figure he thought showing would be more to his advantage than telling."

"Whose the Mad Hatter?"

"The Doctor."

Weaver snorted in derision. "So that's the girl, then?" Weaver then said, jabbing his finger at Vivien's spectacularly gurning face.

"Yeah."

"Not much of a looker, is she?"

"Does a good Jim Carrey impression though," Tom said lightly.

Weaver just harrumphed. "Why did he give you these pictures anyways?" Weaver then asked, brow furrowing even further as he looked between Tom and the photos like he was watching a tennis match at Wimbledon.

"He wants me to intercede on his behalf with Porter," Tom said uneasily. "If the girl's found, he says he'll co-operate if her safety is guranteed."

"Yeah, and pigs can fly. Still doesn't explain why he gave you these pictures though."

"I think... I think he wants me to find her," Tom said slowly. "But I don't see how. South Boston was blown up, and what's left of it will be crawling with Mechs and Skitters."

"But that's what Porter wants as well, isn't it, for you to find the girl?"

"But Porter thinks finding her is a long shot, the Doctor doesn't. He's convinced he's still alive."

"Well, I'm not letting you take a team out there, Tom, Porter or no Porter. If he wants the full set, he can go and get the little bitch himself," Weaver said bitterly. "The girl might not even be human either. One alien scumbag in our camp is enough, thank you very much."

Tom just looked down at the pictures again, dark eyes thoughtful.

"That girl," Weaver said suddenly. "What exactly is she to him, the Doctor I mean."

Tom glanced up, surprised. "I'm not sure," he said slowly, wondering where Weaver was going with this. "He says she's just his friend."

"They seem pretty cosy to me."

"What do you mean?"

"She's sitting on his lap, for chrissake."

Tom just looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Maybe you'd prefer it to be your lap," Weaver said, straightening his skip-hat.

Tom was startled, then angry. "Oh really?" he said dangerously, standing up, taking a step forwards.

"Yeah, really."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Look at yourself, Tom, clutching these goddamn pictures like some Homecoming Queen and her crown at high school prom," Weaver snapped. "That girl ain't Lucille Ball, Tom, some comedienne you can sit and laugh at like life's one big joke. She's a Skitter-siding bitch who could bring hell down on the 2nd Mass, and you're sitting there, smiling like someone's just slipped you a happy pill!"

Tom just shook his head, completely speechless, before turning and stalking off, Weaver watching him go.

* * *

John Pope's miscellany of thugs and hoods strode through the access tunnels, faces grim and unrelenting in the harsh light of the bare bulbs that barely lit their way. His brother, Billy, had the girl slung over his shoulder, his grey eyes gleaming at the prospect of fresh female meat, traitor or otherwise. Pope wasn't interested in shit like that; he preferred his women willing. But as far as the chick they'd picked up at the armoury was concerned, he just wanted to know what the hell she was doing backstabbing the human race before he put a bullet in her brain.

When he and his gang had seen her being carried through the ruins by the cooties, they'd just yawned, thinking they were witnessing another harnessing kidnapping. As long as it wasn't their kids being taken, they didn't care. But then things had gotten interesting, the main cootie setting the girl on her feet before scuttling off, followed by his little green friends, one remaining behind, exchanging some sort of _good-bye_ with the girl, before disappearing into the darkness as well. Then the girl had made a beeline for the armoury, and that's when Pope had gone after her, sensing there was some sport to be had here.

Up close, he'd seen she wasn't a girl after all, but a woman, about twenty or so, not bad looking under all the dirt, but no beauty either. Even with a shotgun trained on her, ready to blow her brains out, she'd stood her ground, eyes burning like blue fire in her filthy face. Girl had guts. He had to admire her for that. Then Whitey had pistol-whipped her, and here they were, bringing her back to their lair, Pope and his gang more than ready for the games to begin.

As they entered the auditorium filled with rows and rows of seats, Vivien blearily opened her eyes, the world the wrong way round. As her brain struggled to catch up with itself, somehow it registered somewhere she was slung over somebody's shoulder, every jolt making her pounding head explode with pain. For a moment she was confused, then reality came rushing back, making her heart swoop alarmingly in her chest with panic. She started to struggle, the somebody telling her to can it, making her struggle even more. Then teeth were biting into the back of her bare leg, deep enough to make her cry out in pain, the sound muffled, choked by the gag in her mouth.

"Billy, behave," Pope drawled, Vivien recognizing him as the one who'd had his shotgun trained on her.

"She ain't, so why should I?" Billy jeered, the others laughing at his lame wit.

Then his hands were on her, wandering like spiders over her flesh, and she lashed out, trying to strike him with her fists and feet, but her wrists were bound, her ankles tied together, rendering her assault ineffectual. Unconcerned, Billy carried Vivien down the rest of the seat aisle, before flinging her onto the floor in front of a stage, her head connecting with concrete, stunning her into submission.

The men gathered round her as she lay there, anticipation filling the air. A girl with long dyed blonde hair dark at the roots got up from the front row of seats, a rifle slung across her back, face unreadable as she surveyed the unfolding scene. Then Pope was there, theatrically conducting the crowd with his beringed hands, before suddenly stooping down and grabbing a hank of Vivien's hair, viciously jerking her upwards.

"Hello again," he drawled. Then he was on top of her, hands tearing what was left of her camisole in half, exposing her back. "Not harnessed, eh?" Pope spat, standing up. "And all the signs point to you acting at your own volition..." He booted her savagely in the side, making her crash backwards onto the ground. He knelt down so he was almost but not quite nose to nose with her. "You know what I hate more than a cootie?" he asked, voice low and dangerous. "A cootie siding human, that's what."

Vivien just stared at him, blue eyes blazing.

"If you're too old to be harnessed," Pope continued, ramming his face further into hers, "what are you to them? A pet? Maybe something a little more... intimate, shall we say?" She suddenly head butted him, her forehead smashing off his nose. He reeled back with a cry, clutching his face, blood pouring out from between his fingers. Vivien went sideways, seeing stars, the blonde girl standing out for some strange reason amidst the whirling landscape, something like satisfaction flickering oddly behind her dead eyes.

"Stick her in the fucking Bird-Cage!" Pope gasped, Whitey and Cueball dragging him over to the front row of seats, forcing him to sit down as Billy picked Vivien up like a rag doll, carrying her the stage steps like a bride over the threshold, one of the other men clambering up onto the platform, flinging open the entrance to a cage that was about five feet tall and five feet wide, its floor splattered with dark bloodstains. Vivien was shoved inside, body crashing against the bars. Then there was the sound of a key was being turned, and as though from far away, she remembered the TARDIS key hanging from its silver chain round her neck, freedom falling through her fingers.


	5. What We Are

**What We Are**

Pope and his cronies stood huddled in a far corner, the latter listening as the former held court, his voice low and urgent as he waved his arms around like a conductor. Vivien watched them through the bars of her cage, putting names to faces, then faces to ranks. Pope was the leader, long haired and long nosed, fancying himself as some sort of rocker in his leather jacket and tight trousers combo. He had a piece of cord hanging round his neck, 'cootie' claws dangling from it, a sight that sickened Vivien, remembering Scarface Sally stroking her hair.

Billy was Pope's brother, with longish greasy dirty blonde hair half tied up at the back, wearing a grubby white vest and leather trousers that creaked horribly when he moved. Whitey and Cueball were Pope's deputies, the former with a long handle-bar moustache and skip hat, the latter fat and balding, wearing a long black leather coat that made him looked like a Matrix cos-player.

The rest of the gang were a curious mixture of young and old; some looking like they hailed from Mexico, others resembling white supremacists; all tattooed, long-haired or bald, wearing an assortment of skip-hats or bandannas knotted round their foreheads and necks. But what interested Vivien most was the blonde girl, dressed in a leather jacket slung carelessly over a black vest and dark denim jeans; silver hand-guns at her hips, a rifle across her shoulder.

Pope called her Margaret, his tone that of an exasperated parent, the others simply calling her Maggie. Even though she walked amongst them as though she was one of their number, she held herself apart, enduring Billy's wandering hands with a bland smile; her eyes dead in the white mask of her face as Cueball whispered intimately in her ear, arms encircling her waist. Maggie watched Vivien as Vivien watched her, but she kept her distance, never drawing any closer than the front row, always sitting in the end seat, rifle angled across her body as she stared at the girl in the cage.

There had been the sound of distant gunfire during the night, but Pope had been nonplussed, ascending the stage with a spring in his step, before throwing himself down onto his throne, one leg crossed over the other as he beheld his kingdom from afar, high above his minions. Vivien guessed it had been who'd decorated the auditorium in a grotesquely ostentatious manner, with broken antique chandeliers, guitars and empty wine bottles littering the stage, along with shields and statues, a sword propped up against a parody of a Grecian pillar. Behind the throne was an eagle standard, the kind an aquilifer would carry, a red banner suspended across the wall. A fridge in the far corner was hooked up to a dodgy looking generator, providing an almost never-ending supply of cold beer, whilst tons of tins were stacked up into tottering towers nearby.

But worst of all was the dead creature, its remains on display like some kind of sick trophy. Vivien knew war was being waged, but there was a fine line between fighting for survival and sadistically enjoying the struggle. It might be a case of kill or be killed, but it didn't give anyone the right to desecrate the dead, alien or otherwise. Seeing its still spider-like legs and rotting eyes made something tear in the fabric of her soul, ripping her further apart inside. Hatred had already begun to fester in Vivien's heart, hatred aimed at Pope in particular, but her main target was Billy, the memory of his teeth and hands on her still raw, filling her with revulsion every time she thought of it.

She stared down at her bound wrists, at the fraying rope digging into her flesh. She would survive this. She had to.

_But as the days we fade away_  
_Lost in this barbarous state_  
_Stand alone in presence face_  
_Bare witness to a soulless fate..._

* * *

The Doctor sat in a cobweb-ridden corner, nose bloodied courtesy of Weaver. Soldiers surrounded him, their faces carefully blank. Weaver was perched on the edge of a work bench, resenting every second spent in the old outhouse, when he could have been tucked up in a warm bed instead. But seeing Tom with that silly grin on his face had shaken Weaver, reminding him of his own fallibility. The Doctor had a magnetic personality, and it was starting to impact on people now, making them lower their guard around him despite themselves. Weaver himself felt the pull keenly, even though he put on a good show of being immune to the Doctor's alien charm.

He'd gone to interrogate the Doctor himself, figuring if Tom could do it, so could he. But the Doctor had just sat there, sunken in sullen silence, his eyebrows sceptically raised as Weaver ranted on. Interrogation had then given way to insult, and this was when the Doctor had finally deigned to speak, smartly telling Weaver to get a haircut, saying ponytails had went out at the Alamo with Davy Crockett. Weaver had snapped, punching the Doctor, busting his nose, the Doctor just sitting there, laughing to himself like a lunatic, blood dripping down his face. Weaver had instantly regretted the punch. It had finally revealed how he really felt, that he was no more invulnerable to the Doctor than the next person.

Weaver raised his head as the silence was broken by the splutter of the pick-up engine. Tom and the others were back from their food run. Relief shot through his veins, revitalising him. Outside, people were cheering and clapping. Weaver stood up, wiping his sweaty hands dry on the front of his combat trousers as Tom strode through the door, followed by the rest of his team.

"Well, what took you so long?" Weaver asked gruffly, not looking at Tom.

Tom just grinned, dumping the cardboard box he was carrying down on the work-bench, tins rattling together as he did so.

"How much did you get?" Weaver then asked.

"Truckload," Tom replied, still grinning, buoyed up by the success of their trip.

"He could have returned with two truckloads if you hadn't been so tight-fisted," the Doctor muttered.

"Shut your mouth, beatnik," Weaver snapped. He wasn't going to explain to some bastard alien that they only had the one pick-up truck; that their other vehicles were all on their last legs, with fuel supplies dwindling and fully functioning spare parts as rare as the Holy Grail. And as for giving Tom and his team the pick of the weaponry, forget it. It couldn't be done. Nowadays, they had to ration their gear down to the last bullet.

Tom stared at the Doctor, grin now gone. "What the hell happened to his face?" Tom demanded, turning on Weaver.

"I happened," Weaver said abruptly.

"What did Porter say?"

"I don't care about what Porter said; we shouldn't be harbouring alien scum" -

- "What did the Doctor do, Dan?"

"He made a historical dig at me about my hair, alright? I just... I just snapped."

Tom raised his eyebrows.

Weaver turned away from him, before turning back again, agitated. "You know who he reminds me of?" Weaver said, jabbing his finger in the Doctor's direction. "You, that's what."

Tom's eyebrows climbed further up his forehead. "Me?"

"Yeah, you on acid."

Tom exchanged a glance with the rest of his team, Dai letting out a low whistle.

"And you know who you remind me of, Weaver?" the Doctor said coldly from behind them. "A pug with an attitude problem, that's what."

Weaver lost it, lunging at the Doctor, Tom diving forwards, restraining him. "Take the Doctor outside, now!" Tom yelled at the soldiers, his team scattering as the Doctor was dragged away, hollering, "Allon-sy!" Tom forced Weaver to sit back down on the work-bench, dismissing Dai and the others. He kept his hands on Weaver's shoulders, forcing him to calm down, Weaver's own hand clutching his chest.

"You alright?" Tom said quietly.

Weaver nodded, Tom letting go of his shoulders, straightening up.

"Any problems out there?" Weaver asked, still clutching his chest.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Tom said lightly, before biting his lip, eyes narrowing as he stared into the distance for a long moment. "Look, Dan," Tom then said, running his hand over his beard as Weaver glanced up at him, "we need to talk."

Weaver's jaw tightened. "About what?" he growled.

"The Doctor knew about us making plans to head for the armoury."

There was a long silence.

"Loose lips sink ships, Tom," Weaver then said with some difficulty, hand gripping his chest even more tightly.

"I never said anything about the armoury in front of him," Tom snapped. "But when he put it to me, I did say we weren't heading there yet, that we were doing a food run."

"Which we all spoke about in front of him," Weaver said. "Myself included."

"And he gave us that advice," Tom said.

"Which you followed."

"But we ended up with a truckful of food, food we desperately needed," Tom argued. "If we hadn't done as he suggested we'd have been worse off than if we hadn't."

"To talk in front of him though... that's an oversight we should know better to avoid," Weaver replied. "It's letting him gather information and God knows where that information is going."

"But nothing happened tonight on the food run."

"You said there were problems."

"Yeah, some Skitters and a Mech, but we were expecting that anyways. It doesn't mean it had anything to do with the Doctor though."

Weaver just looked at Tom, before sighing heavily, lowering his hand from his heart.

"We need to be better than this, Tom. All of us. We're letting standards slip."

"I know," Tom said tiredly. "I know."

* * *

Pope and some of his partisans sat on the edge of the stage, doping up and downing beer as they shot the breeze together. Vivien was huddled in the middle of her cage, her shoulder burning from where Billy had stubbed his cigarette out on her, as though she was an ashtray.

"Hey sweetheart," Whitey called. "Wanna a cognac?"

They all exploded into laughter, all but Pope. He stared at Vivien, eyes inscrutable as he studied her. Then he got up, tossing his hair back, his sycophants falling silent as he approached the cage.

"How's it hanging?" he said quietly, voice devoid of mockery, only hate. "Missing your green friends? Ain't the ickle cootie up there keeping you company?"

Vivien just stared at him.

"There's no use trying to play the innocent, blue-eyes," Pope said. "We saw you with them, practically skipping along hand in hand together."

"Where's your sense of loyalty to the human race, man?" Cueball bewailed to his beer bottle, completely stoned.

"Maybe you should let me introduce her back into humanity the good old fashioned way," Billy leered as he came up from behind Pope, the sight of him making Vivien want to vomit.

"Go and sit back down, Billy," Pope said, something like a warning hidden in his words.

"Spoilsport," Billy muttered, but he went and sat back down all the same.

Pope looked at Vivien for a long moment, and then he turned and went back to the others. Vivien bit down on her gag, her battered feet kicking the bars of her cage in angry frustration.

* * *

Tom threw himself down onto the bed, not bothering to take off his jacket and boots. To Tom's disquiet, Weaver had quartered a whole house for Tom and his sons, and the younger Masons had wasted no time in making it their own, Matt especially, the little boy laying claim to every toy and game in sight. As for the bookshelves heaving with Harry Potters and Manga, Ben would have... Tom ran his hand over his beard, scrunching up his eyes, fighting the tears. Ben wasn't here, and there was no use in pretending that he was. All they could do was keep searching, hoping against hope to find him again.

Exhaling sharply, he forced himself to sit up, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, resting his hands on his knees as he pulled himself together. Then he stood up, making his way over to the makeshift desk he'd set up for himself by the window. It had once been a dressing table, but he'd cleared it of its ornate French mirror and fancy cosmetics, replacing the matching spindly stool with a wooden chair. It was where he'd taken to writing his journal, the sight of the distant stars never failing to raise his spirits. Even after they were long gone, the ghost of their light still burned on, fighting the darkness.

Trying to capture events for posterity had been a habit picked up when he'd first started teaching history. Fancying himself as the next Samuel Pepys, he would scribble down his day with considerable wit – or so he fancied. But then the world ended, the pages of history torn to pieces, forcing Tom to drop his delusions and start writing seriously, one man recording the human race's struggle for survival. Even when he didn't feel like documenting the day's happenings, he always sat down and forced himself to.

He flipped through the pages to where he'd last left off. Most entries were short and to the point, detailing minor victories and heavy losses. One page he always skipped was where he'd written the line, _Rebecca Mason_. He'd scored a line through her name, unable to bring himself to write down the words _dead_ or _killed_. Yet, reading over his last few entries, he was surprised to see how much he'd waxed lyrical about the Doctor.

There was a great deal of wondering over where the Doctor came from, what his world was like, why he was here, if he'd really had dealings with the 'Yanks' before; pages filled with Tom's curiosity over the Doctor's comments about General Gage and the Merrimack, the references to Daleks and Cybermen, the implications of a world-wide cover-up; sentences riddled with the badly hidden pride Tom felt over being called a man of conscience by the Doctor.

His dark eyes passed over other passages, dwelling in particular over what had happened at the Sundash in Belmont: _The Doctor says he's trying to help us; that if the 2nd Mass wants to survive, we should do as he says. However, we don't want or need his help. Nor do we need the barbed witticisms he makes at our expense. But at the same time, I am going to follow his advice over the food run. Even Weaver sees the logic in his suggestion of half the vehicles and fighters going back for the food, before catching up with the rest of the convoy later. _

_But at the same time, I secretly harbour doubts over the wisdom of taking his advice. It could be a trap we're walking into, that somehow he's still managing to relay information back to the Mechs and Skitters despite his assertions to the contrary. I'm expecting trouble anyways over the food run - the usual type of trouble we face twenty-four seven, but a trap is a different sort of trouble altogether. _

_However, even though we caught him helping a dying Skitter, I don't... I don't sense the Doctor is a bad... man? being? creature? How do we define him? I can't call him a good alien; it's impossible to even think of such a thing - as far as Weaver's concerned, the only good alien is a dead one, and I can't help but subscribe to his creed. I don't trust the Doctor, yet I feel there is reason to, but I can't, because of what he is. _


	6. Sacrifice

**Sacrifice**

Tom and his sons were having breakfast - or what passed for it nowadays - taking advantage of the early morning sunshine by sitting on the wall outside the house, Tom trying not to think of the empty space beside him where Ben should be. He glanced down at the bowl of oatmeal in his hands, wishing it was bacon piled high with hash browns and maybe an egg, an English muffin on the side, fork-split and laden with tons of butter.

"Dad, this looks like vomit," Matt said, eying his spoon with disgust.

"Tastes like it too," Hal muttered under his breath.

"Well, it's all we've got," Tom lied, shifting guiltily on the spot, the breakfast bar burning a hole in his jacket pocket. Now he was serving as second-in-command of the 2nd Mass, the perks didn't stop at being given a whole house to hole up in, but also a little extra food, if it could be spared. But taking advantage of the advantages that came with power sat ill on his conscience, and if the house's empty rooms weren't enough to haunt him -

"What the hell!?" Tom hollered, leaping to his feet, oatmeal dripping down the front of his jacket.

"Sorry, food fight," Hal said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry, Matt doubling up with laughter behind him.

Tom just looked at Hal in disbelief.

"What's going on here?" Weaver bellowed, appearing out of thin air.

"Nothing," Hal said hastily, before clocking Karen nearby, all blonde hair and come hither eyes hithering him over. "Sorry, I have to go," he then said, thrusting his bowl at Weaver who took it, nonplussed.

"Nice look, Tom," Anne called over as she walked past, her arms laden with clothes for the civilians.

Tom just grinned sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning crimson. No matter how hard he tried to be cool around Anne, he never quite was.

* * *

"You want to know why your precious Porter left me behind?" the Doctor was shouting at Weaver, making Tom and the others outside flinch. "It's because if any of these things you call Mechs and Skitters came after me, he wouldn't be here when they arrived!"

"Watch what you're saying, beatnik!"

"He's testing me, Weaver! Your 2nd Mass are nothing more than a sacrifice to be made on the altar"-

"I think I've heard enough," Tom muttered to Dai, feeling sick to his stomach as he turned and left. He'd never understood why Porter had seen fit to leave the Doctor behind. Porter had wanted information on the enemy, and he'd all but been skipping with joy when they'd brought him the Doctor. But even as Porter had called for caution, he hadn't been able to contain his glee at striking such a goldmine. Yet Porter knew the alien's presence in camp was causing animosity, so why would he risk his prize prisoner by not keeping him under his protection at all times?

"Professor! Professor!" Jimmy called, running towards Tom at full pelt. Tom slowed to a stop, brow furrowing at the frantic expression in Jimmy's eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked urgently, grabbing Jimmy by the shoulders as he drew level with him.

"A scout's just arrived from Porter's unit," Jimmy gasped, "something about the girl, the one that was with the alien."

* * *

Tom strode into the outhouse, rifle slung across his back. Outwardly, he was composed, collected, but inwardly was a whole other story. The scout's report had been like a bomb going off at the meeting hastily called by Weaver, summoning all senior ranking soldiers and fighters. Events were escalating beyond what Tom had anticipated. During Porter's absence, his unit had sent out a patrol to observe a mass military being carried out in South Boston in the aftermath of its bombing, with numerous contingents of Mechs and Skitters descending on the location, scavenging the ruins, sweeping the area. Now the enemy seemed to be extending the search to all surrounding areas, though for some peculiar reason, Acton had been excluded, the Mechs and Skitters completely bypassing this zone, barring the usual patrols.

The gist of Porter's report was that he assumed the Mechs and Skitters were searching for the girl. The co-incidences were too great for it to be anything else. The girl had been reported as missing, her location last known to be in South Boston. The Doctor had been caught aiding a Skitter, evidence supporting the accusation he was on their side, his alien origins merely damning him further. It only stood to reason his associate would have the same allegiances. If the enemy were looking for two agents lost in the field, it would also stand to reason they would be searching for the Doctor as well as the girl, and this was where the danger lay for the 2nd Mass.

Weaver had lost control of himself, his hand impulsively flying to the gun in his belt. As far as he was concerned, this was the excuse he'd been looking for to sink a bullet in the Doctor's skull. But Tom had halted him, seeing holes in Porter's theory. He'd said quietly, _they're not looking for the Doctor; they're looking for the girl. They started the search at South Boston where she was last known to be. It's only because she's not there that they're extending the search. The search is exclusively being focused on her, no one else. _

But Weaver had remained impervious to Tom's logic, pacing the ground with agitated feet, breath coming in harsh rasps as he spat out his own suggestion that the Doctor and the girl had probably been working on two separate missions, hence the two separate locales. But after Reed had let loose with the AT4s, the Beamers launching an attack in return by bombing seven bells out of South Boston, the girl hadn't got out of the drop-zone in time, which was why they were now searching for her. As for the Doctor, either extending the search was meant to encompass his whereabouts as well, or he was still to report back to base, and when he didn't, they'd come looking for him too.

The scout had coughed nervously at this point, tentatively stepping forwards, before saying her mother had been one of the ones out on patrol near South Boston, barely managing to make it back to Acton in one piece. She'd said that it didn't look so much like a search, but more like a hunt that was being carried out. And it was being nervously bandied about back at base that the increased Mech and Skitter presence in the areas being searched was going to become a permanent arrangement, like it seemed to have become in South Boston, meaning nobody would even be able to sneeze without a Mech or Skitter knowing about it. Her mother had said it reminded her of somebody staking out a rabbit-hole, waiting for the cotton-tail to stick its head out.

A long silence had greeted her words, Tom just standing there, mind awhirl. Porter had given the order for the 2nd Mass to go to ground in Acton, but he'd never said how long for, Tom reasoning they would just be moving on again as before, pitching up in a place for a short duration before hitting the road again. But going to ground was now taking on a whole new meaning.

An increased alien presence meant the 2nd Mass had to watch its step even more now, especially if it was temporarily immobilized, restricted to the one area, Porter's orders or not. But a _permanent _presence, with everywhere under the enemy's all seeing eye? It was bad enough dealing with the basic patrols, but despite that, the 2nd Mass had breathing space; it could up sticks and set up camp elsewhere if needed be, providing they scouted ahead. But now things looked set to change. There would be no more breathing space. They would have nothing, all advantages stripped away. Scouting ahead would be suicidal, and the second the 2nd Mass set foot out of Acton, they would be detected, destroyed. There would be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Then a soldier had cleared her throat, a self important _hem-hem_, eyes narrowing as she'd said almost disgustedly to the scout, "Are you actually suggesting they're _hunting_ the girl down?" Before the scout could frame an answer, another soldier had butted in, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, _that line of argument would have to be extended to the Doctor, since the girl was his associate, both supposedly working for the same alien agency. _Then another soldier, small and blonde, with a heart-shaped face and gleaming white teeth, the all American sweetheart, _but if he meant by alien agency, the Mechs and Skitters, why would they be hunting the pair down? Had they turned traitor, defecting to the humans? _

Another long silence had fallen. Then a ginger haired fighter, a thickset woman in her middle forties, had looked around at them all before saying nervously, _does that mean they're not the enemy, then?_ Her husband had chipped in, _the enemy's enemy is my friend, yeah?_ The others had just looked at him in a mixture of fear and disgust, making him hold up his hands, muttering, _I was just saying, man. _While all these words were being flung about, Weaver's face had grown steadily redder and redder, the veins starting to protrude in his neck, his hands shaking. Tom had watched him, waiting for the explosion to hit, bracing himself for the fall-out.

But then another one of the soldiers had spoken, Greene, an old grizzled figure of a man who'd served with Porter since way back. He'd pointed out that the Doctor had said he wasn't with the Skitters and Mechs, that he'd only been helping the dying Skitter because it was afraid, not because he was on its side. He'd then further illustrated his point by reminding them of the strategy the Doctor had set up for the food run, a strategy Weaver had sanctioned, a strategy that had worked. Then he'd finished his point by saying the Doctor had told Porter he'd had dealings with the Yanks before, implying that he'd been on their side during past alien conflicts now covered up. What happened if this was true? What happened if the Doctor was an ally and not the enemy after all?

Tom had just stood there, silent, thinking of what he had written in his journal, _I don't trust the Doctor, yet I feel there is reason to, but I can't, because of what he is. _Then Weaver had exploded, hurling a chair at the window, soldiers and fighters scattering alike as it bounced off the blinds, crashing to the floor. He'd then doubled up, wrapping his arms around his head as he dismissed Greene, ordering him out of the room like a dog. Nobody else had dared to say anything, the air thick with tension. Where there had been no doubts before, there were doubts now, doubts that would further inflame the situation surrounding the Doctor.

It had been up to Tom to wade into the fray and wrest back control. He had said as calmly as possible that yes, Greene was right, the Doctor had done this, and he'd said that, but the Doctor had been caught helping a Skitter, dying or not. Furthermore, the Doctor was an alien, and that meant he couldn't be trusted, but at the same time, they had to obey Porter's edict he was to remain unharmed, even if Porter was now implying the Doctor was a danger to the 2nd Mass. However, this was just a theory, an assumption on Porter's part. They all had their own theories and assumptions, but the fact was that they had to go by facts.

Tom repeated the girl was last known to be in South Boston, now the Mechs and Skitters were searching there and the surrounding areas. That led him to believe they were searching for the girl, but _only_ the girl. Weaver had once again scoffed at this, booting a table for extra emphasis. Then he'd struck his final blow, forcing them all to confront the elephant in the room, asking why Acton wasn't being included in the area rota of the enemy's recovery operation, when Acton was exactly where the 2nd Mass were based, with the Doctor in their custody. The girl could also be in Acton for all the Mechs and Skitters knew, so why were they avoiding the area? Was it a ruse, a trap? Nobody could answer him, not even Weaver.

Tom had then said extra patrols would be on introduced on perimeter duty, that another meeting would be called later over the idea of perhaps moving the 2nd Mass further into Acton, instead of remaining on its outskirts. One of the soldiers had asked about scouts checking out the areas being searched by the Mechs and Skitters to see if they were setting up a permanent base or had moved on. Tom had said they would, but not yet, whilst secretly wondering if they would at all, whether it would be worth the risk, even though they'd need to find out sooner or later. He'd then concluded the meeting by asking them to keep what had been said to themselves, as not to spread further panic amongst the civilians, an indirect jibe at how one of them had revealed that the Doctor was an alien.

They'd then left, filing out of the room, leaving Tom and Weaver together. But Weaver had turned his back on Tom, so Tom had left too, heading for the outhouse instead, and here he was, buckling under the strain whilst pretending not to. It was like someone was crushing his heart with their bare hands, his whole body trembling from head to foot with the stress. All along he'd obeyed Porter, reluctantly agreeing to leave the city despite the very real possibility of Ben being there. Now they were well and truly marooned in Acton, with Porter probably going to ground nearby with his unit, all Tom's hopes of finding Ben being dashed to pieces again.

As for contact with the other units Porter had sent out up ahead, forget it. All Tom could do was hope and pray they didn't cross paths with the enemy. But for now, he had to worry about his own unit, and if they were going to be stranded in Acton for a protracted length of time, that meant they would soon exhaust all food sources in the area, with no chance of scavenging elsewhere, and they'd also have to be extra careful about drawing attention to themselves from the existing Mech and Skitter patrols as well.

The only solution to their problem was the girl. But the 2nd Mass didn't have her. They had the Doctor, and the enemy didn't want him. They wanted the girl. If they had her, they would move on, allowing the 2nd Mass to breathe again. But if the 2nd Mass could somehow deliver the girl to them, how would that be achieved without risking their own necks or giving away their position? How the hell would they approach a Mech or a Skitter and say they wanted to broker a deal with it? As soon as an alien laid eyes on a human or vice versa, it was game over, first come, first killed. The Doctor had been the only exception to the rule.

"What's up with you?" the Doctor asked abruptly, startling Tom out of his thoughts. "You've been standing there like some mighty old oak for the past five minutes and thirty-three seconds."

Tom just looked down at the Doctor, confused, before remembering where he was again. He hadn't even realised he'd come to a halt in front of him. Then Tom did a double-take, noting the dark circles etched under the alien's eyes, the stubble staining his skin, his torn suit even more crumpled than before. He looked as haggard as Tom felt. But he didn't bear Tom's burden, because he didn't know what Tom knew...

For a moment, Tom felt a surge of pity for the Doctor, then guilt that was eclipsed by disgust at himself for being so soft-hearted. The Doctor was an alien, and aliens had killed his wife, leaving her body for him to find. The Doctor deserved a taste of his own medicine -

_It didn't look so much like a search, but more like a hunt... _

The Doctor raised his eyebrows as Tom continued to stare down at him, all the blood draining from his face. "What is it now?" the Doctor said, rolling his eyes. "Are my ears on the wrong way again?"

"How's your nose?" Tom burst out, fighting to regain control of himself and his loyalties.

"Its splendour still lives on," the Doctor said loftily.


	7. A Stubborn Tide

**A Stubborn Tide**

_I stand in the far corner, shrouded in shadow, the walls pulsating like a heart, flickering beats of crimson, amber, gold. Yet despite the heat of the colours, it's cold here; as cold as the blue of the box standing in the centre of the room. I watch them_ _circle the box as a predator does with its prey, their limbs like pincers, eyes like stones. But she keeps her doors barred against them, her shields up, her systems stilled. But she doesn't stand alone. I stand with her, unseen but still there, silent in the shadows - _

Vivien jolted upwards, a gasp escaping her lips, silenced by her gag. Then she slumped against the bars, heart thundering in her chest, feeling as though she had fallen from a great height. She was still here, still trapped. But at the same time, she hadn't been here; she'd been somewhere else, still trapped, but not subdued. She closed her eyes, trying to remember. But all she could recall was a flash of blue that made her heart ache.

Sitting up, she opened her eyes again, ignoring the painful clenching of her stomach and the rawness of her throat. So far she hadn't soiled herself, one of the unexpected benefits of being a hybrid, but she didn't know how long that boon would last. She didn't know how long _she_ would last full stop. The bastards had even taken her dead-man shoes and makeshift bandages, leaving her torn feet exposed. Then something shifted in front of the bars, making her head snap up, every inch of her on high alert.

But it was just the blonde girl, Maggie, sitting on the edge of the stage, her back turned to Vivien. She was downing a beer, wiping the back of her hand roughly across her mouth. Vivien lost interest. Two members of Pope's gang had returned earlier, two men she'd never seen before, one tall and lanky, wearing a Radiohead T-shirt, glasses perched at the edge of his beaky nose, a rifle slung across his back; the other short and stocky, wearing a grey vest and jeans, hair cropped, features coarse, carrying a shotgun in one hand and a Bowie knife in the other. Pope, map in hand, had dragged the pair to the back of the auditorium, firing questions at them like bullets as he jabbed impatiently at different points on the map with a beringed finger.

Despite straining her ears, all she'd been able to make out had been the word, 'meadow', whatever the hell that had meant, before Pope had rallied his gang together, leaving Maggie behind to guard Vivien as they set out en masse. That's when Vivien had fallen asleep, drifting off to another world. But to where, she didn't know, only wishing she could go back. There she could fight, here she could only surrender.

_It's said I run like a stubborn tide  
Unstoppable, untamed and wild  
But a brave face isn't brave I've learned..._

* * *

"Ready to go, boss?" Anthony asked Tom, the others standing by the pick-up, talking quietly amongst themselves, all waiting to head out to the armoury.

Tom nodded, his mind elsewhere, as it had been all day, his thoughts flickering wildly between an alien with two hearts and a girl whose name evoked images of Forties film stars and enchantresses from Arthurian idylls. And he hadn't been alone in his turmoil. Back at Tom's house, Weaver had started a row over South Boston again, going off at a tangent about the towering metal structure that was stationed there, before suddenly punching a hole through the dining room wall, Anne having to bandage his hand up.

Anthony glanced at Tom curiously, wondering what was occupying him so. Tom caught the glance, and shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand.

"Come on," he said. "Let's check this place out."

The others all hailed his words, Jimmy steering his dog Nemo by the collar as he, Anthony, Click, Hal and Karen all climbed into the back of the pick-up, Tom clambering up into the cab, Dai slipping into the driving seat. As they hit the road, Tom buried his face in his hands. He had to get a grip and he had to do it now.

* * *

Vivien raised her head as the sound of a dog barking in the distance caught her curiosity, reminding her of a world outside her bars. Pope and Billy looked at each other, Cueball and his cronies exchanging confused glances, their card game forgotten. Earlier, Whitey and some others had headed outside to take up what Pope called the 'night shift' - again, what that meant, Vivien didn't have a clue. But his words had marked the passage of time, day had passed, night had fallen, and she was still here, stinking of urine and alcohol after Billy had pissed on her cage, the spray just missing her, the rest throwing beer over her, Pope applauding them from his throne.

Then the explosion hit, ringing through the rafters. Vivien threw herself to the floor of her cage as the sound of gunfire and stomping footsteps filled the auditorium, Pope and his gang leaping to their feet, scattering cards and beer cans like confetti.

"Screw you assholes!" Pope bellowed, shaking his fist in the direction of the destruction. "Screw you all till kingdom come!"

* * *

Tom threw himself down into the armchair, wrapping his arms around his head. It was just screw-up after screw-up. Despite ordering the scout to stay put for the time being, she'd insisted on returning back to base, taking Greene with her, the soldier Weaver had dismissed from the meeting that morning, being delegated to Porter's unit instead. Whether the pair would make it back to base was another question altogether, after Jimmy had screwed up, compromising their position, putting the Mech patrols on high alert, drawing attention to the 2nd Mass's presence in the area.

Jimmy shouldn't even have been out there with them, for chrissake. He should have been tucked up in his bed, not out in the dark with his damned dog, a boy doing a man's job. But at the same time, he was needed, the same way Hal and Karen were needed, yet more kids playing at war. Tom sighed heavily, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he should go and turf Karen out, when he heard the front door slam, signalling her departure.

He sat there, listening to the stairs creak as Hal returned to his room, the door clicking softly shut, the sound muffled by distance. It was no joke being the parent of a teenage boy, especially when the world had ended as it had. Now Tom never quite knew when to treat Hal as an adult or as a child. Father and son fought alongside each other, risking their lives for the resistance, but Tom never let Hal have Karen stay the night, nor did he approve of them sneaking off to snatch a few stolen moments together. Tom always seemed to be walking in on them at the most inappropriate times, and it was beginning to get on his nerves. He didn't want to stand in the way of young love, but as a father, what else could he do?

He exhaled sharply, wishing all over again his wife was here. Rebecca would know what to do, like she always knew. She'd understood Hal in a way he couldn't, always attending the lacrosse games and dinners that had bored Tom silly. If you'd told Tom twenty years ago he'd have a jock for a son, he'd have just laughed in your face before burying his head in a history book again. But then that was life all over, unpredictable and mercurial, none more so than nowadays, the shock of the Earth being invaded by aliens and turning his world upside down still hitting him like hammer blows.

One of these hammer blows was the Doctor. Whenever Tom thought he was close to understanding the alien, the Doctor took a sudden left turn that sent Tom spiralling into the depths of ignorance again. And the whole concept of an alien that looked and sounded human; an alien that was _born_ so, still knocked Tom for six every time he looked at the Doctor. Logically speaking, humans were just as alien to the Doctor as he was to them, but even with that in mind, Tom still couldn't wrap his head around it all. But that had been before. _But God now... _

Tom lowered his arms from his head, before pulling out the strip of photographs from his pocket, holding them up to his face as he studied their battered state, half wondering at what worlds they'd been carried to, imagining where they'd been. As ever, his gaze dwelt on the girl; the way her ebony hair fell across her face like the night sky; the defiant tilt of her chin; her wild eyes. If he couldn't understand the Doctor, he liked to think he understood her, why she would run away with a man with two hearts.

* * *

Vivien's eyelids began to flutter shut again, her body slumping against the bars once more, her mind wandering into the past, _the Doctor grabbing her hand, dragging her through the blue doors into the unknown... _

Pope and his gang had all gone out, leaving Maggie on guard again. Their absences gave Vivien some peace, since Maggie never bothered with her, preferring to give Pope's prisoner a wide berth. As Vivien lay there, propped up by the bars, the past became the present, macabre thoughts filling her mind of her corpse being left to rot in the cage; her head mounted up on the wall like a trophy; her fingers being worn as a necklace by Pope alongside his 'cootie' claws.

She didn't want to die like this. She wanted to go out with a bang, for her death to have meaning. She didn't want to die on her knees, in a cage, stinking of beer and piss, humbled and humiliated -

Something poked her in the side, making her jolt upwards, eyes flying open. It was Maggie, impatiently holding out a bottle of water. Vivien's eyes widened in disbelief.

"I'll take that gag off, if you promise not to bite me," Maggie said slightly nervously, her voice distinctively husky, every word slowed down and span out.

Vivien studied the other girl for a long moment, before nodding, wondering what the catch was. Maggie pulled her knife out, gesturing for Vivien to come closer. Clenching her teeth, Vivien leant the side of her head against the bars, Maggie carefully cutting the filthy fabric. Gag gone, Vivien straightened up, her face feeling oddly bare. Maggie eyed her apprehensively, before jerking her chin at Vivien's bound hands. Vivien held them out, tensing up as Maggie freed her from the fraying cord. As her broken bonds fell to the bloodstained floor, Vivien massaged her numb wrists, the skin rubbed raw by the rope. Maggie stowed her knife away before sliding the bottle of water through the bars.

"Why are you helping me?" Vivien rasped, picking up the bottle, checking to see if it had been tampered with.

"Some nice moves back there, busting Pope's nose like that," Maggie said, avoiding the question. "Where did you learn that particular parlour trick?"

With some difficulty, Vivien managed to get the bottle lid off. "It was just instinctive," she croaked. "There's just something about Pope's face that makes me want to smash it in."

Maggie grinned reluctantly, watching with hooded eyes as Vivien gulped down the water, some of it spilling down her chin. "Is it true then, that you're with the cooties?" Maggie asked suddenly, making Vivien freeze.

"No, it's not," Vivien spat, slamming the water back down.

"Bullshit," Maggie said.

"Then why ask?" Vivien fired back. "If you believe I'm with them, why suggest otherwise?"

Maggie just shook her head, before stalking off, her high-heeled boots clicking across the stage, the sound echoing around the auditorium.

* * *

"What do we do, Tom?" Weaver growled, pacing the dining room floor. "You say you're one hundred per cent sure they're not searching for the Doctor. Porter says they might be. But then Porter said keep the Doctor alive, and he still seems to be standing by that, despite implying otherwise. He's not making any sense - maybe he's going senile for all we know. But Porter's not here - _we _are, so what's the point of _us_ keeping the Doctor alive? Whether he's a threat or not, he's an alien, so we should just kill the bastard. "

"Hold up," Tom replied, running his hand over his beard, struggling to keep his eyes open. He'd had hardly any sleep, his appetite gone, body running basically on empty. The civilians still remained in ignorance over the severity of the situation, but the rest of the 2nd Mass were on edge, Tom most of all. "What happened if they did want the Doctor back after all? He might be our ace card for all we know."

"No, he's not," Weaver spat, stunning Tom. "He's a useless piece of shit, that's what he is. And that's why they don't want him. He's been here for days now, and we haven't had as much as a peep from these alien pricks. Nothing's coming for him. You're right, Porter's wrong. It's the girl we need. She'd be our ace card. How we'd play her, I don't know though. We'd need to figure out something if we found her. Maybe Porter was right in hinting you were to find her."

"Porter's either right or wrong, Dan, he can't be both" -

- "Why do they want that goddamn girl so much?" Weaver exclaimed, completely steamrollering over Tom. "Why don't they just cut their losses and move on?"

"Well, they might just do that" -

- "But we can't hang around waiting for them to move on, Tom!"

"The point is, we're stuck here," Tom continued tiredly, throwing himself down onto one of the dining table chairs, burying his head in his hands. "We could risk some recon, but I don't want to, not yet anyways. As soon as we set foot outside our perimeter, the Mechs will be on us. But we're going to have to at some point, or otherwise we won't know whether they're still there or not. There's no point in us trying to use surveillance from a distance either. The horizon might seem all clear" -

Weaver shocked Tom by grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him like a Polaroid picture, Tom thought insanely, his teeth rattling in his head.

"You're starting to crack, Tom! And so am I!" Weaver bellowed, fingers digging into Tom's shoulders now. "We have to hold it together!"

"Okay, okay!" Tom bellowed in return, pulling himself free of Weaver's death grip. "We're holding it together, we're holding it together!"

"Holding what together, Tom?! The universe!? The pieces of your broken heart!?"

"The 2nd Mass, damn you! We're holding the 2nd Mass together, _together!_"

Weaver took a step back, eyes narrowing. Tom just sat there, trying to recover his dignity. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing as the two men tried to avoid looking at one another, Weaver tugging at the brim of his skip-hat, jaw tightening.

"I bet Greene's grassed me up to Porter over busting the Doctor's nose," Weaver then said, sounding put out.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have reassigned him back to Porter's unit, then," Tom said sarcastically, getting to his feet. "Not exactly your smartest move, was it?"

Weaver just looked down at the ground, brow furrowing. "I'm surprised Greene said all that, about the Doctor, I mean," Weaver said quietly, making Tom look sharply at him. "Some of the fighters seem to be thinking along the same lines."

"I'm not going to lie to you, Dan," Tom said equally as quietly, "I've been having these thoughts as well. But at the same time, it would be catastrophic to let our guards down. It's like I said, he's an alien, so we can't trust him."

* * *

_I gaze into the glory of the great beyond; into the heart of the universe itself, as though I can find in its depths what I'm so desperately seeking. __It's a nebula; the Tarantula nebula to be exact, a cauldron of runaway stars and fledgling stars; supernovas and clusters... _

_A shadow falls across my skin. I turn my head, only to see him there, watching me, watching over me. His face is half shrouded in darkness, but what I see of his features is as familiar to me as my own - _

_Then suddenly there's fire and flame, and he just stands there, unmoving and uncaring as the flames devour him, a golden mist scorching the soul from him, and I'm screaming his name, the name nobody knows, and still he burns, and still I scream as the stars burn with him - _

Vivien jolted awake for what seemed like the umpteenth time, her head whacking off the bars. Maggie sat at the edge of the stage, a smirk playing on her lips as she watched Vivien grasp the reins of reality again, frantically looking around the empty auditorium, presumably for Pope and the others, marking out where the enemy was. The cootie bitch had been intermittently amusing Maggie with her antics. Busting Pope's nose had been the highlight though. Billy was next on the cootie bitch's hit-list, Maggie could see it in the way the cootie bitch watched him, her blue eyes blazing with hatred, hatred Maggie felt but never showed, feeling like she deserved her fate for the sins she'd committed.

But the cootie bitch didn't seem to give a shit about sin or fate for that matter, not in the way Maggie did, and the smirk slipped from Maggie's lips, her hands reaching for her guns instead. In the end, bullets were the only thing a girl could believe in.

* * *

Tom and his team were due to head out to the armoury again, Tom still struggling to maintain the pretence everything was going like clockwork. However, they were heading out without Jimmy and Nemo this time. Jimmy had been relieved of his duty, and was now following Weaver about like a lost soul, trying to make up for his mistake. But before they left, Tom wanted to speak to the Doctor, to see if he could make him shed some more light on the girl, not that it really mattered in the end. Finding out what her favourite flower was, or her preferred pizza topping or why the Mechs and Skitters were pursuing her like the paparazzi wasn't going to make any difference to Tom's life. The 2nd Mass were properly up Shithole Creek without as much as a paddle between them all, and some fun facts weren't going to change any of that.

So with face hard and eyes bitter, Tom stalked into the outhouse again, instinctively tightening his grip on his rifle-strap as he moved. The Doctor glanced up as Tom approached him, forehead furrowing as he noted the harsh planes of the human's face, his dark eyes cold and unkind. Oddly enough, it lent Tom's plain features an air of dignity they'd lacked before, but it was a dignity that shot arrows of doubt through the Doctor's hearts. He'd thought Tom Mason was a good man, weak in some ways, but _good. _Alright, the human carried a gun or two, but it was with the air of a man not used to doing so. But now he realised he'd underestimated Tom, that the soft heart hid a steel core.

"You really need to sort out the situation with Weaver and the civilians," the Doctor said abruptly.

"That's none of your business," Tom said sharply. He'd already had this conversation with Anne that morning, and he had no desire to repeat it.

"Maybe it is."

"Maybe it isn't. You don't know us, you don't know anything."

"I know that I can help you."

"How?"

"I can help with the harnessed kids for starters."

Tom's fists clenched and unclenched by his sides, fighting the urge to do a Weaver and break the Doctor's nose. It was aliens who had taken his son away, harnessing him, turning him into a mindless slave, yet _this _alien had the temerity to sit there before him, offering to make amends, acting all holier than thou, actually _patronizing_ him. But it wasn't just that which was twisting Tom's guts so, driving him into darkness. It was the unspoken fear he wouldn't be able to find his son, that they'd be stuck in Acton, his son slipping through his fingers once more. _And again, who was to blame for that_, Tom thought viciously,_ the Doctor and his blue-eyed bit on the side, that's who. _

"You're on borrowed time, you know that?" Tom growled, circling him.

"Don't talk to me about time; you know nothing of it."

"Really?"

"You know, I don't like being used as a classroom prop," the Doctor said airily, changing tack, "especially when the teacher is talking about the best ways to kill an alien."

Tom just stared at him, face pale.

"Is this what you're seriously teaching your kids; how to kill and maim?" the Doctor said incredulously, dropping all pretences now. "What about teaching them about peace and compromise?"

"We did that at the beginning of the invasion," Tom said from between gritted teeth, shaking from head to foot. "We offered peace. We didn't fire on them. We held back, and all we got in return was blood and death and destruction. That's why we teach our kids to kill aliens; why you're being used an example of the enemy. It's because you _are _the enemy."

"I'm not your enemy."

Tom just turned away from him, shaking his head to himself, before dismissing the guards with an impatient hand. The Doctor watched them leave as Tom turned to face him again, looming over him.

"Cut to the chase, Tom," the Doctor then spat, tired of pussyfooting around now.

"I'm not going to be your inside man, Doctor," Tom said quietly, voice low and dangerous. "From the second I stopped these men from kicking your head in, you've had your eye on me, and you've been waiting for your chance to strike. Except you don't have time for a long drawn out protracted takeover, so you're escalating the attack, going in for the kill, flinging these photos at me" -

- "I didn't want to give you these photos at all," the Doctor retorted.

"So why give me them in the first place?"

"Because if you're going to find Vivien, you need to know what she looks like," the Doctor said with the air addressing an imbecile.

"I never said I was going to find her."

The Doctor just looked at Tom, eyebrows raised.

"What did I just say?" Tom snapped. "I'm not going to be your inside man, Doctor. And I'm certainly not going to drag the 2nd Mass on a wild goose-chase to find some Skitter siding blue-eyed bitch" -

- "You noticed that, then?"

"Noticed what?"

"The colour of her eyes, that's what."

Tom ran his hand over his beard, starting to feel like he was falling into another trap.

"You might not be my inside man," the Doctor then said quietly, "but I thought because you were a good man, you'd help her."

"No, you don't think I'm good at all," Tom said. "You think I'm weak, that's why you targeted me. That's - that's classic military strategy, you attack the weakest points first to destabilize the structure" -

- "Are you insane?" the Doctor cried, eyes bulging now. "I have no motives beyond finding my friend!"

"Then why are you helping the Skitters?!" Tom yelled. "Why are you helping us?! Why are you chucking that girl at my head?!"

"I'm not chucking anyone at your head."

Tom just stared at the Doctor in disbelief.

"Is that why you're acting like a headless chicken?" the Doctor said slowly, comprehension filling his eyes, face beginning to light up with malicious glee. "Do you think I'm trying to tempt you to the dark side by dangling her in front of you?"

Tom looked away, the tips of his ears reddening.

"As if she'd look twice at you!" the Doctor hooted. "Some hairy old widower" -

- "That's enough!" Tom exploded, face crimson now.

Silence fell.

"I want my pictures back," the Doctor then said smartly.

"Fine!"

Teeth gritted, Tom tore the photos out of his jacket pocket, shoving them at the Doctor, who just looked at Tom as if he was stupid, holding up his bound hands to illustrate his point. Tom rolled his eyes, before stooping down and ramming the photos back into the Doctor's suit pocket instead.

"I hope you haven't been kissing these pictures good-night," the Doctor said pettishly. "They've been in some nasty places, least of all up a giant's left nostril."

Tom's face changed colours like a traffic light, flickering from white to red to purple. Then he glanced down, caught by something sticking out of the Doctor's other pocket. Without any warning, he suddenly stooped down again, grabbing its edge and yanking it out, much to the Doctor's very loud annoyance. Tom straightened up, clutching the photo with trembling fingers, before backing away from the Doctor, staring at him accusingly.

"When you were patted down, your pockets were searched, and they were empty," Tom said. "So how come you have these pictures? Where did they come from?"

"As if I'd tell you! Now give me that back!"

Tom's jaw tightened. Then he held up the photograph, face grim. "No, I'm keeping this," he announced, some distant part of him enjoying seeing the Doctor suffer.

The Doctor stared at him, face riddled with rage. "Fine, keep it," the Doctor said suddenly, eyes shutting down. "It's not even mine anyways."

Tom glanced at the Doctor, then the photo, wrong footed.

"Go on, look at it. Enjoy the spoils of war. See if I care," the Doctor spat.

Tom turned the photo over, brow furrowing. It was the girl again, but younger this time, about eighteen, dressed in a faded blue woollen jumper, jeans and wellies. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high pony-tail, eyes happy instead of wild, her smile serene. She was sitting on a stile, holding a little blonde girl in her lap, fields stretching into the distance behind them. Tom looked up at the Doctor, gaze questioning.

"She's human then? She's not like you?" Tom asked.

"It depends on how you define human."

Tom looked down at the photo again. "What do you mean?" he said, feeling like his world was starting to splinter.

"What do you care?"

"My son... my son was taken, harnessed. Your question on how you would define human applies to him as well."

"So?"

Tom just shook his head, crumpling the photo up in his hand before turning and leaving the room.

* * *

Click was showing Anthony how to spar, ducking and diving like he was Mohammed Ali, his voice carrying through the night, the others cat-calling and wolf-whistling in appreciation of his display. Tom strode towards them, the photo still crumpled up in his hand, when Weaver intercepted him, stepping out in front of Tom, blocking his way. Tom stumbled to a halt, exhaling sharply. Weaver was the last person he wanted to deal with just now. In fact, he didn't want to deal with any of them. He just wanted to go and lock himself in a room somewhere, so he could be alone with his troubled thoughts.

"Tom," Weaver began, "I just"...

His voice trailed away into nothing, leaving the two men standing there in silence, awkwardly facing one another. Tom raised his eyebrows, wishing Weaver would just get to the point. But Weaver looked away, losing his nerve. He'd come to check up on Tom. Despite his aversion to Tom on occasion, he was worried about him. Yet every time an opportunity arose to close the breach between them, Weaver just went and widened it that bit further.

"Just be careful out there," Weaver then said gruffly.

"Always am," Tom replied, confused now.

Weaver nodded, before abruptly turning and stalking off. Tom watched him go, before shaking his head in disbelief and striding towards the others, Click now assuming the victorious pose of a prize-fighter, Anthony looking defeated as the others cheered and clapped.

"Ready to go, Chief?" Dai hollered at Tom.

"Yeah," Tom said, teeth clenched. "Let's get this done."


	8. The Enemy's Enemy

**The Enemy****'****s Enemy **

Red-Eye stood in the shadows, watching as the group of humans headed towards the armoury, his ancient heart in turmoil. All his carefully laid plans had turned to dust, and it was all due to the girl. His spy had been incorrect in his information. The humans_ had _made plans to scout out the armoury, but these plans hadn't been disastrously carried out until later, and amongst the chaos, the girl had gone missing, disappearing into thin air, the Espheni consequently launching a large scale search operation to locate her.

He had done what damage control he could, isolating Acton from the area rota, ensuring it was only the basic patrols that were active in the area, the metal drones under the control of his comrades, whilst all the while deceiving his superiors into believing the opposite; that Acton was being searched along with the surrounding areas, an elaborate ruse that could topple like a house of cards at any time, revealing his rebellion, ruining all they were trying to achieve.

As for Red-Eye, he too was seeking the girl, and if their paths crossed again, by the blood of his brethren, he would crush her between his claws, once and for all. There was too much at stake, too much to lose. She had managed to evade the Espheni so far, but she wouldn't be able to do the same with him, not he who had a world to avenge.

* * *

___An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, and circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle. But it will never break_.

Maggie was now sitting in her usual seat at the end of the row, hugging her knees to her chest. Everything had fallen silent. No more stomping footsteps. No more skull-drilling droning. No more Mechfire meeting gunfire. Vivien sat hunched in her cage, the bottle of water long cast away. Once open, its seal broken, it was worthless. Somebody would spit in it or worse. And anyways, Pope would have taken it from her, probably setting one of his men on her as a punishment -

- "Watch my leg, man!" Billy shouted from somewhere unseen, his voice echoing oddly. Maggie raised her head, lowering her legs as the double doors at the back of the auditorium flew open, smashing off the walls. Pope and his gang poured through the doorway, Cueball and Whitey carrying a heavily bleeding Billy between them, the others dragging in five strangers, their faces hidden by the black cloth bags flung over their heads.

Vivien crawled forwards, clutching the bars of her cage as the five strangers were forced to walk blind down the aisle, hands bound behind their backs, guns aimed at their heads. Maggie stood up, rifle raised as they were shoved into the seats beside the one she'd just vacated, Cueball and Whitey carrying Billy up the steps and onto the stage, swiftly followed by Pope, who tore off his leather jacket, casting it aside as he knelt down beside the groaning Billy. The rest of his gang fell back, five stepping forwards and training their weapons on the five strangers. In quick succession, Maggie whipped the bags off their heads, revealing their faces.

Three of the strangers were young, two not much more than kids, the boy dark-haired and dark-eyed, scared but trying to hide it; the girl blonde and pretty, with her long hair tied back in a messy ponytail, face defiant; the other guy in his early twenties at least, with a cropped head and dark skin, his brown eyes filled with rage. The other two men were older, one in his thirties, Vietnamese, handsome with high cheekbones, eyes filled with scorn as he looked upon the enemy; the other about forty, plain and bearded, looking like he could do with a good scrub and shave.

But it was he who held Vivien's attention, making her sit up a bit straighter in order to see him better. He was no beauty in her book, with messy dark hair and a long face with an equally long hawk like nose, his skin pale beneath his ruddy tan. His gaze was darting around the auditorium, reminding her of a bee trying to escape out of a closed window, buzzing hopelessly against the glass, his dark eyes widening at the dead creature on display, before raising his eyebrows almost comically at the sight of the throne onstage, surrounded by the rest of Pope's relics.

As for Tom, he felt as though he'd been flung headfirst down the rabbit-hole, before taking a sharp left-turn straight into hell. Click was dead, killed during the ambush back at the armoury, Pope and his partisans then dragging Tom and the others to the auditorium, before trussing them up like turkeys at Thanksgiving and stripping them of their weapons. Tom didn't even know where they were either; the place looked like somebody had raided a tomb or two, maybe even a museum or three as well. Noting the gun sticking out of Pope's leather jacket lying discarded onstage, Tom's disbelieving gaze then passed over the sword and eagle standard, before falling on the cage, the sight of the girl staring back at him through the bars making him freeze in his seat, spine stiffening.

Somehow knowing without knowing, he knew it was her, the girl in the picture, the ghost he'd been chasing. Her dark hair fell around her filthy face in a knotted tangle, her clothes nothing more than rags barely covering her soot-stained skin, making her look like she'd just climbed down out of a chimney. Yet all the same, it was _her_, her eyes blazing like blue fire, bridging the distance between them. Tom fell back in his seat, feeling like somebody had just dealt him a mortal blow.

"Dope me up, man," Billy whined as Cueball came over, dumping a leather hold-all on the stage beside him. Maggie climbed the stage steps, face blank again as she placed a dish of water next to Pope. He glanced up at her, then over his shoulder at Vivien.

"How come our little cootie slut here managed to get her gag off and her hands untied?" Pope fired at Maggie, his eyes wild as Whitey helped Cueball load up a syringe.

"I did it myself," Vivien spat, making Tom sit up in his seat.

"You got claws and fangs like your little friends, then?" Pope retorted, washing his hands in the dish of water. "If so, I'll take great pleasure in ripping them out and wearing them around my neck."

Something snapped in Vivien. Whether it was his words or the dried bloodstains on the floor or the dead creature on display, it was enough to strip away the remnants of her humanity, revealing the monster within. She suddenly slammed herself against the bars of her cage, hissing inhumanly at Pope, who reeled back in shock, everyone else following his example.

Tom just stared at her, all the blood draining from his face. This wasn't the girl who pulled funny faces in a photo-booth, nor was she the girl who held a child in her arms, green fields stretching into the distance behind them. This wasn't a girl at all, but a monster, a beast. Then she started howling like a banshee, making all the hairs stand up on the back of Tom's neck, the others shooting him terrified glances.

"Oh my god, it's a _ben síde!_" Billy screamed, body writhing wildly with panic and pain. "It's come to take me away!"

"Somebody shut that mad bitch up!" Pope bellowed, struggling to hold Billy down.

But nobody was listening to him, all his gang's attention riveted with terror on Vivien. Some had fallen to their knees, repeatedly blessing themselves, feverishly reeling off prayers under their breath, whilst others had their guns out, aiming them shakily in the direction of her cage, their trembling fingers curling round the triggers, almost but not quite pulling them. Maggie just stood there, holding her ground. "What the hell is _that?_" Whitey whispered, exchanging a terrified glance with Cueball who shook his bald head, crossing himself before offering up a Hail Mary for good measure.

Tom looked at Hal, who just stared back at him, his dark eyes wide and dilated with fear. Then Pope stood up, drawing their attention to the stage again as he drew out his gun, his long hair falling across his face, obscuring the snarl of his lips as he aimed his gun at the cage, making Tom freeze in his seat, the Doctor's voice reverberating through his memory, _it depends on how you define human_, and inexplicably he thought of his son; of Ben being trapped by his inhumanity, reduced to the level of a mindless animal -

"Hey you, in the cage!" Tom hollered, making everybody turn and look at him, Pope lowering his gun, confused. Even Billy fell silent. "Hey, I'm talking to you!" Tom continued to shout, trying to ignore the way Hal and the others were looking at him like he'd just lost his mind. "Listen to me, or I'll come over there and make you!"

Incredibly, Tom's voice broke through the barriers of Vivien's madness, the sound making her head turn in his direction, the howl dying on her lips. Seeing this, Tom kept shouting, insanely imagining he was yelling at one of his sons for drinking out of his favourite coffee mug. As she stared at him, blue eyes beginning to lose their blank glaze, Tom kept on shouting, his voice becoming hoarse with the effort, his words wrapping themselves around her like a rope guiding her back to reason, tethering her to him.

Then she slumped against the bars, her forehead resting against them, features no longer feral, but tired instead. Tom watched as she wrapped her arms around her head, looking for all the world like she trying to find herself again. Pope stared at Tom for a long moment, eyes suspicious, before stowing his gun away again, signalling for the others to do the same. They reluctantly obeyed, exchanging nervous glances with one another.

As Pope strode back over to Billy, Cueball and Whitey resuming their ministrations over his prostrate body, Vivien slowly raised her head, feeling like she'd just fallen from a great height, her gaze instinctively finding Tom's once more. It had been him, she realised dimly; he'd been the one hurling abuse at her, his voice dragging her out of her delirium.

Before she could stop herself, she gave him the middle finger, making him shrink back in his seat, the fear in his face filling her with vicious satisfaction. Then she rested her head against the bars again, nausea hitting her. Falling into these frenzies traumatized her already broken body, its alien aspects suddenly springing out of the darkness, turning her into a savage stranger that hissed and howled like a wild animal, her humanity reduced to ruins, a mere facade for the beast to hide behind. The Doctor had nick-named her Jekyll and Hyde, but his jocularity hurt her, reducing what she was to a mere joke -

_The Doctor. _

As though from far away, she remembered him, all long limbs and messy dark hair, throwing himself around like a bouncy ball... She sat up, her gaze falling on the bearded man again, passing over the blur of frightened faces that surrounded him, captives and captors alike. That's why he'd held her attention so. Something about his dark eyes reminded her of the Doctor, making her remember when she'd almost forgotten.

_something about your eyes_  
_something that might_  
_melt the winter in my heart..._

* * *

Vivien watched as Cueball flicked the syringe with a trembling finger, before leaning down, placing his shaking hand on Billy's chest as he injected the needle into Billy's neck, Whitey and Pope holding Billy down between them, Billy's head tilted right back, the veins almost popping out of his skin. "That should do it," Cueball said, casting the syringe aside as he glanced nervously in the direction of the cage.

"Think he'll pull through?" Pope asked, smoothing the hair off Billy's face, Maggie looking away, eyes suddenly alive with revulsion.

"He's bleeding hard in the leg," Whitey said evasively, his gaze flickering cagewards like Cueball's.

"The bastard's probably nicked an artery," Vivien spat, making Cueball start violently.

"Shut your trap, bitch!" Pope snapped, nearly springing to his feet.

"Hold up, Pope," Whitey said, grabbing Pope's arm. "Bitch is right, but he's not nicked the artery, he's severed it."

"He's bled out?" Vivien said, becoming drawn in despite herself.

"Yeah," Whitey replied, shrinking back a little. "Bled out already."

"Well, use your belt and bind his leg tight," Vivien instructed, Pope just looking at her like she was mad. She guessed she couldn't blame him for doing so. Only somebody that was insane would try to save the life of a man who'd assaulted and humiliated them as Billy had her. But again, that was the Doctor's influence on her, an influence she sometimes railed against, but always surrendered to in the end.

But to everyone's surprise, including hers, Whitey did as she said, hastily unbuckling his belt and yanking it out of his jean loops, Pope watching with raised eyebrows as he strapped it round Billy's thigh. Then Pope got to his feet, taking his sweet time about it, Tom and the others watching with wide eyes as he swaggered over to the cage.

"This isn't _Catch Me If You Can_, Red-Coat," Pope drawled, fiddling with a ring in his finger as he spoke, twisting it round and round in circles, "so unless you really _are_ a board-certified micro-surgeon, I suggest you shut your trap like - well, like I suggested before."

"I might not be an expert," Vivien said from between gritted teeth, "but I bet I know more than your homeboy over there does" -

Pope slammed his fist into her face, busting her mouth.

"I _told _you to _shut _your _trap_," he said quietly before turning and crossing the stage again. Vivien slowly raised her spinning head, blood leaking out of her mouth. Again, her gaze crashed into that of the bearded man's. Something flickered behind his bland gaze, something she couldn't decipher. The closest she could get to understanding was that he was trying to see past her, through her almost. His companions were watching her as well, but it was with fear and disgust, not in that strange soul-searching way as he was doing.

"Any of you medical personnel, fix my brother?" Pope asked them he descended the stage steps, gesturing carelessly to Billy behind him. They just stared at him, united in mutinous silence. "No?" he said, shaking his head. "THEN WHAT GOOD ARE YOU!?" But again, they just stared at him, still silent. Pope stared back at them, before grinning suddenly, slapping his hands together. "So where you from?" he asked casually, moving towards the front row as he spoke, making Tom and the others shrink back in their seats.

"Where you from?" Pope repeated, rolling his eyes.

"Cambridge," Tom said quickly, too quickly.

"And how are things in... Cambridge these days?" Pope said, looming over Tom, who lowered his head, as though he was cowering in fear before Pope. But again, his gaze met Vivien's, making her sit up and focus on him afresh. Wiping her bloody mouth clean with the back of her hand, she studied him, trying to figure him out; sensing his display of fear was just that, a display.

"Worse than they are here," Tom replied, still staring at Vivien.

"Can't be any worse than where I am," Vivien retorted, stung by his stare, blood choking her words.

"Ignore the parrot," Pope ordered, his gaze flickering over Tom and the others. "So what are you, family?" Pope then asked, gaze dwelling on Anthony and Dai in particular, eyes becoming filled with disdain. "Well, obviously not all," he said in a loud theatrical aside, much to his gang's amusement.

"Shut your fucking mouth, you fucking bigot bastard," Vivien snapped, making Tom straighten up despite himself.

"Like I said, ignore the parrot," Pope said, rolling his eyes again. "So are you family or what?"

"No," Tom replied, quickly staring at the ground again. "Just came together a couple months ago."

"You part of some resistance?"

"No, just a group of people trying to survive."

"Then where'd you get the weaponry?" Pope asked, stooping down in front of Tom, forcing Tom to look at him.

"Dead cops. National Guard," Tom said in a rush, trying to cover his lies with a cloak of false terror.

Pope studied him for a second, before standing up and surveying them all again, glancing over his shoulder at Vivien in her cage. "So altogether my haul consists of a lobsterback cootie slut who doesn't know when to shut her mouth," he said, before turning back to Tom and pointing at him with a theatrical finger, "Papa Smurf and his furry face," Pope then pointing at them all in turn, tone derogatory, "a sexy freedom fighter girl... strapping young man... and two men of _colour_."

"Fuck you, you fucking fascist!" Vivien snapped.

"Whoa, see we've got hands across the world over here," Pope said sarcastically, picking up the sword propped against the stage. "How ironic, considering whose side you're on."

"Screw you!" Vivien retorted.

"Uh oh, someone's getting a little stir crazy," Pope said in a sing-song voice, swinging his sword like a golf-club. "Want me to put you out of your misery, Red-Coat?"

Vivien just spat on the stage, teeth bared, Maggie watching the scene unfold with oddly glittering eyes.

"Ohhh, you're just asking for it, aren't you?" Pope growled, before suddenly charging at the cage, sword half raised, Vivien throwing herself backwards against the bars despite herself.

"NO!" Tom shouted, almost against his will, making Pope falter and then stop. He turned around, brow furrowing, before descending the stage steps, sword still half raised, Tom swallowing hard as Pope approached him as stealthy as a panther. "You say something?" Pope asked quietly, tilting his head to one side.

Tom just looked at the ground again, the others beside him shifting nervously in their seats. Vivien clutched the bars of her cage, heart in mouth.

"She runs with aliens, buddy," Pope said scathingly, "and anybody that runs with aliens deserves to be run through with a sword. Question is, does the sword deserve such a fate? Personally, if I were a sword, I wouldn't want all that traitor blood tarnishing my blade, that's for sure."

Still Tom stared at the ground.

"You run with aliens, Cambridge?" Pope asked.

Tom shook his head mutely.

Pope studied Tom for a long moment before suddenly swinging the sword through the air, the blade arcing towards Tom, swift and sure, the others screaming, Vivien's hoarse cry cutting through them all. Then the sword stilled, inches from Tom's pale face. Pope just laughed, long and loud, his partisans joining in.

"Just messing with ya," Pope grinned, lowering the sword before bringing it back up again, lightly tapping Tom on each shoulder like he was knighting him, making Tom tense up. "Arise, Sir Papa Smurf!"

As Pope played to the crowd, Tom's gaze met Vivien's again, something silent passing between them._ The enemy's enemy is my friend,_ Tom remembered from far away as Pope knelt down before him, leaning on the sword handle with a careless grace. "You see, I'm figuring since you're the only one willing to speak up," Pope said, his voice low and confidential, "that must mean you're their leader."

Tom swallowed hard, ignoring the terrified looks Hal was shooting him.

Pope jerked his head at Vivien. "You her leader too?" he asked, racheting the tension up even further.

"Never seen her before in my life," Tom lied.

"Be glad that you haven't," Pope replied.

Silence.

"Well, since you're their leader and I'm _their _leader, I guess it's voting time, since there can't be two leaders," Pope then said, eying Tom thoughtfully. "Do you want him as your leader, boys?"

"Fuck, no!" they all hollered in return.

"Well, that's you told," Pope grinned, before suddenly dropping his sword and pulling his gun out at the same time, pointing its barrel at Tom's head. "I guess your term in government's over, buddy," Pope said quietly, no longer grinning. "Time to make way for new blood by baptizing my beginning with your blood." His finger curled around the trigger, Tom scrunching his eyes shut, Hal and the others shocked into silence, unable to move or breathe.

"Don't!" Vivien cried, voice cracking. "Please don't!"

"And why's that, bitch?" Pope said, sounding bored.

"Just... just don't, alright!?" Vivien pleaded, flinching at how feeble she sounded.

"Just... don't?" Pope parodied, raising his eyebrows.

Vivien threw a desperate glance at the other members of Tom's group, jumpstarting Hal back to life.

"We can get you more guns," Hal said quickly.

"How?" Pope said, lowering his gun. "I thought it was just you and your little rag-tag gang of ragamuffins, a bunch of complete strangers thrown together by fate." He waggled his hands like he was on Broadway, making his men laugh again, the sound echoing around the auditorium.

"We're the resistance," Hal said, trying to stand his ground. "Part of the 2nd Massachusetts."

"The what?" Pope scoffed, glancing at Tom whose shoulders were now hunched up to his ears, looking like he wanted to strangle Hal for spilling the beans. Pope then stooped down, so he was eye level with Tom once more.

"The 2nd Massachusetts?" Pope sneered. "Revolutionary War? And here we have a red-coat pleading for an American militia member's life." Pope shook his head to himself, Tom's shoulders hunching that bit further. "So what's the deal with the historical re-enactment? Is it all fife and drums and tri-cornered hats or is that just wishful thinking on my part?" Pope fired at Hal as he stood up, stowing his gun away.

"No, we have guns," Hal repeated.

Pope stared at him for a long moment before suddenly springing forwards, grabbing Hal by the scruff of his neck, hauling him out of his chair and throwing him to the floor, the others lunging forwards, only to be restrained by Pope's men, Tom shouting _NO! _as Pope rammed his foot down on Hal's windpipe, making Hal jerk and choke. Pope glanced over his shoulder at Vivien, grinning provocatively at her, making her grip on the bars involuntarily tighten, her knuckles turning white.

"Let him go, Pope," Vivien said, trying to keep her voice steady, refusing to rise to his bait again. "He's just a kid."

"Why do you care so much about these people?" Pope asked, annoyed. "You don't even know them and they certainly don't give a damn about you."

"Because they're not... they're not like me, alright!?" Vivien said with difficulty, wondering where the hell she was going with this. "They're... they're different. They don't deserve what I deserve."

Pope pretended to consider her words, Vivien now gripping the bars of her cage like grim death, too scared to say anything else. Then he lifted his foot off Hal's windpipe, making Vivien slump forwards in relief. "I think I get it now," Pope said, smiling slowly as Hal half sat up, coughing and spluttering. "You're seeking redemption for all the humans you've backstabbed, because you think you can wipe the slate clean by saving this little lot here."

Vivien nodded, trying to look sorrowful and penitent. But Pope just laughed, throwing his head back. "Your little act doesn't fool me, Red-Coat," he said, face then falling back into its usual hard lines, all laughter gone now. "If you think by batting these big blues at me, I'll melt and buy whatever sob story you're selling, think again. You're forgetting me and my boys seen you with the cooties, practically throwing flowers and holding hands together. Your number is up, bitch, so don't try and get into my head, or your demise will be more painful than I originally planned it to be."

Vivien just stared at him, eyes narrowing. Pope stared back at her, disgust fighting with reluctant admiration. It was like he said before, the girl had guts. But he didn't want guts, he wanted guns. He rammed his foot down on Hal's neck again, enough to hurt him, but not enough to choke him, making Tom lunge forwards again, his cry of outrage cut off by the shotgun rammed against his temple.

"What you have, boy, is a .50-cal mounted on the back of a GTO," Pope fired at Hal, who stared up at him, eyes bulging in his beetroot face. "You also have 111 soldiers and fighters shacked up in these fancy-ass mansions and 200 civilians camped out in the big meadow nearby, a regular Tent City," Pope continued, applying further pressure to Hal's neck, making him splutter. "And you know how I know that? Because I've been watching your little resistance movement" -

- "Get to the point, Pope," Vivien interrupted, making Pope glance up at her.

"My point is, that's why we were staking out the armoury," Pope then said, eying her oddly, "figured it would only be a matter of time before these dicks came looking to score some sweet sidearms, and they did, completely taking the bait, me and my boys ambushing the hell out of their asses. It's just... _strange _that we caught you there as well, just after you parted ways with your little cootie friends."

"I wasn't there to set up some trap for the 2nd Massachusetts, if that's what you're implying," Vivien retorted.

"Well, maybe the trap was for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Vivien spat.

Pope just raised his eyebrows before turning back to Tom and the others. "Maybe that's why she's so damned determined to protect you and your little 2nd Mass minions," Pope drawled. "Her attempts to trap you at the armoury fell through, so she's trying another angle by getting you onside, so if some miracle happened and the 2nd Mass triumphed over me and my boys, you'd take her in, take her home to that meadow, with all your people camped out like sitting ducks - then BOOM!" Pope rammed his fist into the palm of his hand. "Total annihilation."

"Bullshit," Vivien scoffed. "Complete and utter bullshit."

"So I guess I did you a favour by scooping her up like I did," Pope said to Tom, as though Vivien hadn't spoken, "or she might have gotten her dirty little talons into you instead. I figure that noble gesture deserves some kind of reward, don't you? A little recompense perhaps." Tom just stared his son, his lower lip quivering. Pope shook his head contemptuously before suddenly pulling out a knife and kneeling down, flipping Hal onto his back and straddling him like a horse, Tom lunging forwards again as Pope grabbed a hank of Hal's hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat.

"Say farewell to your son and heir, Papa Smurf," Pope drawled, pressing the edge of his blade against Hal's jugular. "Nobody can say I didn't play fair with you."

"You're not playing fair," Vivien said quickly, voice cracking again. "In fact, you're playing stupid."

"And how so?" Pope said, rolling his eyes.

"Because if you want that .50-cal like I presume you do, you're going to need them alive to get it."

"Explain that one to me, sweetheart," Pope grinned, glancing round at his partisans as though to say, _what the fuck she on about now._

"The 2nd Massachusetts are an organised resistance movement," Vivien said coldly, voice gathering strength now, "they have 111 armed soldiers and fighters, as well as 200 civilians on top of that, civilians the top brass will arm with whatever they have, even if it's just saucepans and brooms. If you have one of their main men, I guess that makes him pretty valuable, his son too. If they and the others don't come home tonight, the 2nd Mass are going to come looking for them, and it's not going to take them long to track them here from your precious armoury."

All the blood drained from Pope's face, his grip slackening on the blade.

"So what was it I said? 111 armed soldiers and fighters, plus 200 civilians ready to be put into the field? And how many people do you have? Two dozen or so at the most? Even with guns, I think the odds are stacked against you. So do the math, Pope, and you'll work out why you need them alive," Vivien spat, hands shaking despite herself, thinking the Doctor would have handled the situation better than she was doing. But he wasn't here, and somebody had to be the Doctor, so she had to step up.

Pope looked at his partisans for help, but none was forthcoming. Even they couldn't argue with her logic. He then reluctantly lowered his knife from Hal's throat, before getting to his feet, hauling Hal to his own, Tom and the others just sitting there, faces shell-shocked, Tom's gaze still riveted wordlessly on his son. Pope gestured at Vivien with his knife, looking as though he was going to stick the blade between her ribs, but he didn't, slitting the rope binding the boy's wrists instead.

"Now you're playing fair," Vivien sneered before she could stop herself.

Pope's face reddened. "Nobody's going to die tonight," he then said with some difficulty, waving his knife at Tom and the others, "nobody except Machiavelli in the cage there, but the rest of you, you're all way too valuable, do you get me?"

Nobody answered him.

"Never mind," Pope said shakily, "here's what we're gonna do - we're gonna make a deal. You lot for the .50-cal on the back of that car."

Tom just shook his head, jaw clenched.

"It's a deal, Pope," Vivien said quickly, angry at Tom's stupidity.

"Who made you the spokesman for the 2nd Mass?" Tom spat, stunning her for a second.

"You'll find it's spokes_woman_, sunshine," Vivien then retorted, recovering her nerve.

Tom just glared at her.

"Well, I guess that's a deal then," Pope said, eying Vivien oddly again. "Margaret?" he then called, glancing over his shoulder as Maggie descended the stage steps, her jacket hood now flung over her head. "Please escort young Prince Charming here back into town so that he can bring the terms of our deal to the supreme allied commander of the 2nd Massachusetts."


	9. Scoundrel Days

**Scoundrel Days**

Vivien watched as Tom was forced back into his seat, the 2nd Mass being led out of the auditorium by Maggie and the rest of Pope's gang. Her gaze then slid stagewards, lingering on the gun sticking out of Pope's leather jacket, the cogs of her mind turning furiously as Pope paced the floor like a restless predator, his head bowed, hands clasped behind his back.

But Tom was two steps ahead of her, already trying to figure out a way to free himself so he could reach the gun onstage. Even with Hal now gone, hopefully bringing back help, it was still up to him to try and turn the tables here. Back at the cage, Vivien waited until Pope's back was turned, before frantically semaphoring Tom with her hands, making him do a double-take, something that Pope, who was still staring at the ground as he paced back and forth, thankfully didn't see.

"The gun!" Vivien mouthed, pointing to it.

"I know!" Tom mouthed back, rolling his eyes.

"Smart-arse," Vivien silently replied, making Tom grin grimly despite himself.

"What are you smirking at?" Pope spat, making Tom hastily shake his head, looking at the floor instead. Pope glanced suspiciously at Vivien over his shoulder before looking at Tom again, eyes narrowing. "So what were you?" Pope then asked. surprising Tom. "You know, before?"

Tom raised his head, considering Pope's question before answering almost reluctantly, "I taught history, BU," his gaze drifting across the stage again, passing over the gun before coming to a rest on Vivien once more. She raised her eyebrows at him, wondering at the irony of him being held hostage in the kind of place he must have lectured in.

"History? What kind of history?" Pope said, sitting down on the stage steps. "The Sumerians on up?"

"American."

"American?"

Silence.

"So how's the resistance going?" Pope then asked, shifting on the spot.

"Just getting started," Tom said clippedly.

"Really?" Pope scoffed. "You actually believe that fairytale?"

"I do," Tom said with quiet certainty.

"History buff such as yourself ought to know better," Pope pointed out.

"I taught the American Revolution. You know how that turned out."

Pope picked up a beer can from the edge of the stage. "Yeah, but is that the right - what do you call it? -_ analogy?_" Pope said, getting to his feet as he ripped the ring-pull off. "Instead of the aliens being the red-coats," Pope shot Vivien a dirty look as he strode towards Tom, "well, we still have red-coats, but that's beside the point" -

- "Well, if you don't see any hope" -

- "Why don't I eat a gun?" Pope guessed, throwing himself down in the seat beside Tom's. "Well, I'll tell you this, Cambridge, and this may come off as a little insensitive to the ninety percent of mankind that's already gone to the grave, but the arrival of these creatures is the best damn thing that's ever happened to me..."

As Pope prattled on, Tom's attention drifted, his gaze locking with Vivien's once more, lips reluctantly twitching again as he remembered _smart-arse_. Vivien caught the edge of his humour, the sight of it wrong footing her. She frowned at him, but he just looked back at her, dark eyes darkening even further, his stare steady, steering her to stiller waters. Fingers curling round the bars, she stared wordlessly back at him and for a long moment it didn't matter what she was or whose side he was on or what was happening to them, then Pope spoke, breaking the spell.

"Sorry to interrupt love's middle-aged dream," Pope said sarcastically, startling Tom, "but why do you keep watching her?"

"Watching who?"

"The banshee shacked up in the cage, that's who, dumbass," Pope retorted. "Ever since you've come in here, you've barely been able to keep your eyes off her. If you're not on the same side, why are you so... involved, hmmm? Or are you just sweet on her or something? If so, your taste in women leaves much to be desired, my friend."

Tom just gaped at Pope, the tips of his ears reddening, Vivien hastily looking away.

"Well, what's the story, Papa Smurf? You like her or what? 'Cos to be honest, my brother's sweet on her as well - thinks if she's cleaned up and decked out in some leathers and a corset, he'd have a total babe on his hands. He's already helped himself to a little sample of her dubious charms, but that's as far as it's gone, if you know what I mean. I've been chaperoning them, you see," Pope said with mock gravity, his words sickening Tom to the stomach. "But if you play fair with the .50 cal, I might - and I mean _might _- throw her in for free, seeing since she's damaged goods."

"That pile of damaged goods is actually one of our operatives," Tom spat, making Vivien freeze.

"Oh really? Then why did you deny seeing her before, hmmm?" Pope pretended to ponder, his eyes lighting up dangerously at this new turn of events.

"That's irrevalent," Tom snapped, sidestepping the question, Vivien watching him wide-eyed from behind the bars of her cage.

"Prove it then, Professor," Pope declared. "Prove to me you know that pile of cootie-loving shit over there."

Tom just stared at Pope. Pope just stared back at him, smirking a little. The pair of them thought they could pull the wool over his eyes, two little pigs uniting against the big bad wolf, but boy oh boy was he going to blow their house down. He had them at his mercy, and he wasn't going to show them any, not unless he got that .50 cal, and even then...

"My pocket, Pope," Tom then said.

"Your _pocket? _"

"Yeah, my pocket," Tom repeated, experiencing an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.

Pope rolled his eyes. "This better not be a trap, buddy," Pope then said, putting his beer can down on the arm-rest, before leaning over and sticking his hand into Tom's jacket pocket, rifling through its contents with impatient fingers. Vivien sat there, holding her breath, wondering what the hell the bearded bastard was up to. Pope then pulled out the picture Tom had confiscated from the Doctor, before holding it up to the light, staring at it in disbelief. It was _her_, the bitch in the cage. Same bright blue eyes and everything. And that was Merrie Olde England in the background or he was a headless turtle.

"Your kid, yeah?" Pope suddenly fired at Vivien, flashing the photo in her direction, making her freeze, the blood draining from her face as she recognized who was in the picture. Pope then looked at Tom for a long moment, folding the photo in half as he did so. "Seems like you win this round, Cambridge," Pope said quietly, pocketing the picture. "Although I don't understand why you sat there and kept quiet when I said you lot were all safe, and she was doomed to death row."

Silence.

"If you can't explain that, maybe you can explain why your 'operative' is running around with cooties," Pope continued, fiddling with his ring as he tried to regain his ground. "Or maybe the answer to that is in the word 'operative'."

Again, silence

"She's a double-agent," Tom then said, pretending to sigh heavily. "She feeds false information to the Skitters" -

- "Cooties, you mean."

"She feeds false information to the enemy," Tom amended, "and she relays intel back to us about them. But somewhere along the way, she screwed up, and..." his voice trailed off as his invention gave out, "and, uh, well, here we are."

"You went out looking for her?"

Tom nodded, not sure where this was going.

"Thought you were out on a gun run though?" Pope said lightly, too lightly. He was starting to smell a rat here, a big stinking rat at that.

"We were killing two birds with one stone, trying to find weapons" -

- "And your woman," Pope finished for him, taking a sip of beer. "I get it now, the whole secrecy thing. You were trying to protect the mission, yeah?"

Tom just looked down at the ground, sensing the situation was now starting to spiral out of his control.

"I _knew _you knew each other," Pope said, playing along with the plot, photo or no photo, "the whole rushing to each other's rescue all the time sort of gave the game away, buddy."

"I know," Tom said, not daring to look at Vivien who was still dumbstruck, completely silenced into disbelief, wondering where the hell he'd got that photo from. All that she'd had, she'd burned.

"She's ballsed up, big time, bro, leading you to my palatial mansion like this," Pope said, sitting back in his seat. "Nearly got your boy Sweeney Todded there."

"Well, she has a history" -

- "Of making monumental mistakes? Then why send her on a secret mission amongst what you call the Skitters?"

"Wasn't my call."

"I bet it wasn't," Pope snorted. "She's right in the shit-hole, now, isn't? And I don't mean being here, I mean with you. You're looking like you could tear a strip out of her."

Tom bit his tongue. It was more like he wanted to tear a strip out of Pope, but he let it slide - for now. "Yeah, Vivien's got a habit of pissing people off, me especially," Tom said, making Vivien start violently, Pope glancing sharply at her.

"Fuck off," Vivien spat, catching herself.

Tom laughed bitterly to himself. "Nothing's changed much, has it?" Tom said scornfully. "And there's me thinking absence made the heart grow fonder."

"Obviously not," Vivien retorted, her head spinning, shaken by the fact he knew her name and what it could mean; wondering wildly if the Doctor was indirectly involved in this latest turn of events.

"O, Vivien, for you, methinks you think you love me well; for me, I love you somewhat," Tom quoted sarcastically.

"Don't start that shit again," Vivien snapped.

Pope let out a low whistle. "Let's not go there, sister," he said, waving his beer can at her.

"Go and get a fucking hair-cut or something," Vivien retorted, resisting the urge to wrap her arms round her head and curl up into a ball on the floor of her cage. In the space of one second, everything had shifted, changed. It was no longer a case of joining forces with a stranger to get the hell out of here; it was now a case of asking whose side was this stranger really on and what it would mean for her fate if he freed her. She might just be exchanging one prison for another. And judging by the general anti-alien attitude all round, she guessed if the Doctor was with the 2nd Mass, it wouldn't be on a friendly footing, but rather a ball and chain basis which didn't bode well for her either. But then again, what other options did she have? If she wasn't being hunted down by creatures from another world, the locals were shoving her into cages and stubbing their cigerettes out on her.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa,_" Pope was saying, holding his hand up as though to halt her. "Seems like I owe you an apology, Red-Coat."

"Save it for somebody that actually cares, Pope," Vivien said tiredly, making Tom look at her in concern, concern she just ignored.

Pope just shrugged his shoulders as though to say, _c'est la vie_. Then he got out of his seat, before swaggering towards the stage as though he had all the time in the world, his fingers fumbling in his pockets, searching for something. Vivien frowned at him as he approached, flinching slightly as he slammed his beer can down on the edge of the stage, Tom watching, wondering if Pope really would... and Pope did, pulling out from his pocket the key to the cage, holding it aloft with an air of victory.

He then ascended the stage with a spring, and before Vivien realised what was happening, he was unlocking the cage door. But as he turned the key, his eyes met hers, an unsettling gleam in his gaze. In that glance, she saw he didn't believe Tom's fairytale about her working for the 2nd Mass; that he was only letting her out of this trap so she would fall into another one of his setting. She looked over at Tom, doubt darting through her heart again. If he knew she was travelling with the Doctor, what would stop him from believing she kept company with other aliens, especially when she was being accused of siding with the creatures he called Skitters? He was part of an alien resistance movement, so why on earth would he be trying to save what they considered the enemy?

Pope held the cage door open for her, sweeping her an elaborate bow as he did so. "Your humble servant, my lady," he said, eyes flashing with sadistic enjoyment, before taking out his knife and carelessly cutting the rope binding her ankles together. Vivien disbelievingly stumbled free, legs numb, bare feet encrusted with scabs and dried blood, her battered body hunched over as she hopelessly tried to hold her ripped camisole together. As she raised her head, her eyes met Tom's, and the pity in his gaze made her chin tilt defiantly, silently telling him to shove his pity up his arse.

Then much to her surprise, Pope peeled off his grubby blue and green checked shirt, revealing a sweat-stained grey vest and heavily tattooed muscled arms underneath, before wordlessly handing the shirt over to her. Snatching it off him, she hastily put it on, buttoning it up with shaking fingers, Tom averting his gaze as she did so, Pope turning his back on her, surprising her all over again.

Vivien just stood there, wrapping her arms around herself, not sure what to do next, half of her wishing for a hot bath and a three course dinner, the other half wanting to make a dive for the gun. She had no idea how to handle a sidearm beyond pointing and pulling the trigger, but if all else failed, she would certainly enjoy pistol-whipping Pope, and as he turned back around to face her, she dropped her gaze to the ground, not wanting him to see his downfall in her eyes.

* * *

The Doctor sat opposite Weaver, a vast expanse of lace tablecloth dividing him from the human. With some difficulty, he'd been removed from the outhouse and herded into a palatial mansion that looked like it had fallen from the pages of _The Age of Innocence. _The grandeur of the residence insulted the Doctor. It was as though it had put on its best clothes in expectation of impressing him, only to fail miserably. He lived in a police box that was bigger on the inside. How could any house compete with that?

Yet it was the mansion's egregious opulence that angered him most, especially when he noted that it was only Weaver and a few of his most trusted co-horts occupying its many rooms, the rest lying empty. The sick and vulnerable were huddling in tents and makeshift shelters in the meadow nearby whilst Weaver and his men lived the high life here, with warm beds and a roof over their heads.

Weaver stood up, his chair scraping cruelly across the polished floorboards, making the Doctor wince in sympathy for the floor. With hunched shoulders, Weaver strode over to the sideboard, before pouring himself a glass of Scotch. He damned well needed it. The situation surrounding the 2nd Mass being stranded in Acton was now reaching critical level. He wasn't sure how much longer they could keep it quiet or what they were going to do when they had two hundred hysterical civilians to deal with, not to mention a hundred and eleven mutinous soldiers and fighters on top of that.

"Nightcap, Dan?" Mike asked from where he was standing by the window, concerned about the sheer amount of alcohol Weaver seemed to be consuming on a now nightly basis; not that Mike could blame Weaver for needing a crutch. They all needed something to prop them up. Some had family, friends, or memories of them at least. Weaver had nothing, so he hit the bottle instead.

Weaver glanced at Mike, torn between annoyance and guilt. Mike was one of his best fighters as well as one of his most trusted men, but right at this moment, Weaver was wishing Mike was a million miles away. Putting distance between himself and Mike, Weaver walked unsteadily back over to the dining table, coming to a halt just beside the Doctor, making the Doctor raise a querying eyebrow, Weaver ignoring him.

Then there was a knock on the front door, making humans and alien alike look up in surprise as the sound of raised voices drifted in from the hall; then Anne was being escorted into the dining room, Mike and the other armed guards hastily assuming sentry position. Anne glanced around her nervously, slightly taken back by this display of military might.

"How can I help you, Anne?" Weaver said impatiently, nursing his glass of Scotch with a slightly shaking hand.

"I just thought of something that could help improve the conditions of the civilians," Anne said in a rush, Weaver resisting the urge to roll his eyes as she launched into a monologue about Stockton and nuked housing, his thoughts drifting, gone with the wind...

The Doctor watched as Weaver's eyes glazed over, almost mechanically taking sips of Scotch as Anne passionately pleaded her case for the civilians. No wonder Tom had a thing for Anne, the Doctor thought, studying her with carefully hidden admiration, she was quite something. In fact, she would have made a fine companion, two Doctors in the TARDIS, healing the universe... The Doctor could just hear Vivien scoffing at this, and the thought stabbed him through the heart. He had to find her, but how could he without getting a bullet in his back?

"Captain! Captain Weaver!"

Weaver raised his head, Anne whirling around as Hal burst into the dining room, Mike and the other armed guards reaching automatically for their guns.

"What the hell's going on?" Weaver demanded. "Where's your father?"

"Being held hostage, along with the others," Hal said, catching his breath. "Bastards sent me here to parle over terms for their release."

Weaver slammed his glass down on the dining table, the amber liquid splashing over the sides of the glass, splattering the lapels of the Doctor's torn suit.

"Do you mind?" the Doctor spat.

Weaver cuffed the Doctor round the head, knocking him sideways.

"Oi!" the Doctor protested, making Hal stare at him, then at Weaver, then at the Doctor again. Weaver just stared at Hal, wrong footed.

"What is it, son?" Weaver asked urgently, shooting the Doctor a suspicious look.

"Him," Hal said shakily, pointing at the Doctor. "I mean the girl, the girl that was with him, the one that we thought got blown up in South Boston - she's there, at the auditorium, I mean, I think it's her - she's English and the guy said he saw her with the Skitters - well, if it's her, she's there, with Dad and the others."

There was a long silence, then the Doctor suddenly sprung to life, lunging out of his chair, making for the door, Weaver jumping him from behind, Anne retreating into a corner, hand flying to her mouth as human and alien struggled, the armed guards rushing forwards to join the fray. But the Doctor broke free of them, hurling himself past Hal –

A gunshot rang through the air, stilling, silencing.

Weaver and the others fell back, Hal just rooted to the spot, stunned as the Doctor looked down at himself, eyes widening with almost wonder at the sight of the dark blood seeping through the side of his suit jacket. Then his legs gave way beneath him. He tried to catch himself by grabbing the edge of the dining table, but he collided with it instead, collapsing to the ground in a heap of stripes and sideburns, eyes rolling back into his head as Mike lowered his gun.

* * *

_Stranger than I ever knew_  
_Putting faith in something bigger than me, bigger than you..._

"Well, go on then," Pope prompted, a nasty grin spreading itself across his face. "Go ahead and see your old man."

With trembling legs, Vivien crossed the stage, wincing as her flayed feet padded down the stage steps. As she approached the stranger in the front row, she made a split decision there and then. Her life was on the line, and maybe so was the Doctor's, so she had to run with what she had, if she wanted to get out of this alive and find him again.

"Hey nerd, long time no see," she said quietly.

Tom just stared at her before catching himself."You have a cheek to talk," he replied, trying to sound convincing.

Vivien just raised her eyebrows at him before forcing herself to move forwards. Not sure what to do next, she then clambered up onto his lap, deciding she might as well make herself comfortable while she was there, Tom tensing up, repulsed but manfully trying to hide it and failing miserably.

"Jesus, you smell like a brewery," he said, wincing.

"I call it, _Eau de Budweiser_."**  
**

Tom shook his head incredolously. "You're bonkers, you know that?" he said in disbelief. "First you tell Ozzy Osbourne over there to get a hair-cut, now _Eau de Budweiser?_"

"Just shut up and enjoy the show, sunshine," she hissed, running her hand across his beard in a way that made him want to run a mile, frightened she was going to take this further than he was prepared to go.

"I - I was so worried about you," he whispered, trying to halt her in her tracks by playing along with the pantomine. "When you didn't come back... I - I thought you were dead, that they'd found out..."

Vivien nearly laughed out loud at this, but she controlled herself. "Did you miss me then?" she whispered back, flashing her bloodstained teeth at him. Tom just nodded, or tried to anyways, looking so trapped and revolted, that she lost it, something like hysteria hitting her as she burst into hyena-like laughter.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Tom snapped, glancing nervously at Pope who was sitting on the stage steps, watching them with narrowed eyes as he nursed his beer can with both hands.

"At you, idiot, for being so goddamn ridicolous," Vivien whooped.

Again, Tom just looked at her like she was mad, which she supposed she was now, and no wonder. Maybe he should try a day in her life some time, see how he liked it. Choking down the rest of her laughter, she leaned her forehead against his, before amping up the act and running her hand through his dark hair, hoping he didn't have dandruff or something worse, whilst wondering how much longer she would have to participate in this farce.

"I can't believe this is happening," Tom muttered under his breath.

"Blame your animal magnetism," Vivien muttered back, before beginning to hum the opening bars to _Closer To You, _then breaking into the bridge, "_Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?/Just like me, they long to be close to you/Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by?/Just like me, they long to be close to you..._"**  
**

As she sang on, the corners of Tom's mouth began to tremble, before tilting upwards against his will, dark eyes betraying his unwillingness to participate in her pantomine, but doing so anyways as he sang the last few lines with her, "_So, they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold/And star-light in your eyes of blue_..." his voice husky as the duet died away, Tom's grin fading with it, Vivien oddly missing the sight of it. To her, it made him look younger, not so homely.

"Nice song," he then said quietly.

"Only a nerd would know the words to that song," Vivien parried.

"Then how you do know it?"

"Because of a nerd, a nerd like _you_."

Tom just raised his eyebrows at her.

"You old dog," Pope said from behind them, making Vivien lift her head. "Never thought you had it in you."

"Neither did I," Tom said dryly.

Pope eyed Vivien critically. "She's no beauty, though, is she?" Pope said brutally. "But beggars can't be choosers, not nowadays, eh, Prof? Any port in a storm and all that crap."

"You know what they say, love is blind," Tom said, shrugging his shoulders.

"And power is an aprodisac, sweetening the deal," Vivien countered smartly, bestowing a savage smile on Tom.

Pope let out a low whistle. "Got shot down there, big style, buddy," Pope said, swigging his beer.

"No, I've always known she didn't want me for my good self, but rather what I could give her," Tom lied.

"Well, what do you expect? You're twice her age, man. Still, can't blame her for trying to get by, especially in these scoundrel days," Pope said. "I mean, for me and my boys, it's a whole different story. We're not getting by - we're having the time of our lives, man. Finding your little princess should have been the icing on the cake, another blow to Cootie Central, except it turns out she's batting for the humans - or so you say. Either way, I don't like having my parade rained on, Professor, but I'll let it slide, this time."

Tom just inclined his head, Vivien marvelling at his self control.

"So what's it like, then, dealing with the cooties?" Pope then fired at Vivien. "Do they make your flesh crawl? Give you the heebies when you have to high-five them?"

Vivien just looked at him, unable to frame an answer.

"Oh, come on, don't be all bashful," Pope complained. "Especially after that little exhibition back there with your banshee routine. And what was that all about anyways, eh? It's not exactly normal human behaviour, is it? Or is there something you're not telling us, hmmm?"

"I want my photo back," Vivien said suddenly, sick of playing Pope's game, of him playing along with their pantomine.

"Nah, I'm keeping that," Pope said. "A little something to remember you by."

"It's the only picture I have of my daughter!"

"Boo hoo."

"Fuck you!"

"Whatever, Red-Coat," Pope said, rolling his eyes.

Vivien just sat there, seething, blue eyes blazing in her filthy face.

"So have you killed any cooties?" Pope then aimed abrubtly at Tom.

"A... few," Tom admitted, startled.

"How?"

"Rifle."

"Shoot for the head?"

"It... seems to do the trick."

"I hate to be the one to tell you, friend, but you've been going about it all wrong," Pope said with the air of a conniessieur. "You don't shoot for the head. You take out a couple of legs. You slow them down. It weakens them. Then you take the head shot." As he said this, he looked at Vivien, making her involuntarily grip the front of Tom's jacket.

"You ever go one-on-one?" Pope then said, taking another swig of beer.

Tom just shook his head, feigning interest, whilst trying not to wince as Vivien's grip on him tightened.

"This one, I did solo," Pope said, gesturing to the dead creature on display behind him. "Thought I was gonna die, but I didn't. It did."

Tom tried and failed to look impressed, Vivien sickened to the stomach now.

"You ever take down a ship?" Pope then asked, getting worked up now.

Tom shook his head again, wondering where there this was all going, when it would end and how it would end.

"Cooties and their robot friends respond to sound, right?" Pope said, putting his beer down on the floor. "Well, the ships, they give off heat. So anyways, me and my boys, we raided the armory, right? We got ourselves a _genuine_ bazooka, right? And we're like, 'All right.' So we peel this engine block out of an old Volkswagon, right, and we set it on fire. When it got hot enough, the magnesium just, it ignited - it was like we were staring into the heart of the sun, man. So we were just sitting there, having a few beers, and lo and behold, in comes this airship, right? Billy takes a bazooka, he gets a cootie bird in its sights, lets a shell fly. It arcs - I mean, it's going, I don't know, the ship must have sensed something, right? It must've because it just deked out of the way" -

- "Would you stop saying 'right' every two seconds?" Vivien interrupted, sick of listening to Pope prattle on, even as she stored away what he was saying. "Or I'm going to start saying 'left' just to keep you company."

Pope just stared at her, the silence spinning into oblivion. Then he suddenly roared with laughter, throwing his head back as he slapped his thigh. "Red-Coat, you kill me, you know that?" Pope said, pushing the hair out of his eyes.

"Would it kill you to give me a beer?" Vivien said archly, suddenly changing tack.

Pope studied her for a long moment. "How about I give your fella one, huh?" Pope said. "Beer's a man's drink after all."

Vivien just shrugged her shoulder. "Sure."

"Fancy a beer then, Cambridge?" Pope called as he swaggered over to the stage.

"Yeah, why not?" Tom called back, his gaze settling on the gun.

Pope came back over, beer in hand. "Mosey, girl," he ordered Vivien, making her get up out of Tom's lap and stand beside him instead. Pope then hauled Tom out of his seat. Up close, Vivien was shocked at how tall he was. Even though she wasn't exactly short, he still towered over her. "Don't do anything stupid," Pope warned as he slit the rope binding Tom's wrists behind his back.

"Don't worry, I won't," Tom said quietly, massaging his wrists. Vivien sat down, curling her legs up beneath her, studying Tom as he turned away from her. Again, he was no beauty, hairy and homely, overly tall and awkwardly so, probably clumsy and ham-fisted to boot, but she sensed he was _safe_, that he was somebody someone could trust in another world, in another time. But_ she_ couldn't trust him. Once they got out of this mess, the truce would be over, the truth finally revealed, and she would bet her bottom dollar that it would be a truth she wouldn't stand to gain from.

Pope handed Tom the beer, making Tom freeze. "It's _cold,_" Tom said in disbelief.

"Yeah," Pope said, "ain't we civilized?" He gestured over to the stage. "Got ourselves an old fridge back there running off our genny."

Tom pressed the glass bottle against his cheek, before lowering it, holding it almost reverently as he casually wandered over to the stage where Billy was lying, the gun close by. Vivien watched him, heart in mouth, not sure how this was going to pan out. She had never actually planned on killing anyone, having never actually killed anyone before, but the harsh reality was that people were probably going to die, and the power of life and death was now maybe passing from Pope's hands to the stranger's instead. If he got the gun, he could take out Billy and Pope, then her perhaps, if he was so inclined. He would still have to deal with the rest of Pope's gang though, but he didn't seem too concerned about that, not yet anyways.

"So he your only kid, the one I sent back to town?" Pope asked Tom, surprising him.

"No, I have two other boys," Tom replied, surprising Vivien.

"They with you?"

"One is. The other one's harnessed." Vivien's ears pricked up at this. Pope had initially thought she'd been harnessed, and she'd wondered what he'd meant by that. Did it literally mean being harnessed like a horse, some sort of way of controlling someone?

"Damn," Pope said as he turned and walked over to Vivien, before sitting down beside her, making Vivien draw away from him despite herself, her gaze colliding with Tom's. "Do you know where he is?" Pope then asked conversationally, casually flinging his arm over the back of Vivien's seat.

"No," Tom said, just as casually edging closer to the stage, before leaning against it, back pressed against the wood, elbows propped up on the platform, "we're still looking for him."

"You know, if I were you, if you found him, I would put him out of his misery. That's no way to live, bro."

Tom's face drained of colour, but he kept his cool. "You have kids?" he asked Pope.

Pope held up two fingers. "Boy and girl," Pope said. "Were with their mother in Florida when the shit hit the fan."

Tom just nodded, before glancing disinterestedly down at Billy, Vivien feeling like she was going to vomit. If he didn't pull this off...

"How do your boys like the banshee, then?" Pope said. "She all wicked step-mother and shit?"

"The youngest likes her, Hal not so much," Tom said distractedly.

"So when you gonna do it? When you gonna make your move?" Pope said suddenly, quietly, drawing out his gun, Vivien nearly throwing up there and then.

"Excuse me?" Tom said, lifting his head, feigning confusion.

"From the moment you've come in here, you've been eying up Miss. Cootie Pie here, and the gun too," Pope said coolly, cutting to the chase. "Can't have it all, Cambridge; it's one or the other, the girl or the gun, not both."

Tom didn't do anything, just standing there, clutching his beer like he was at a barbecue. The sight of him so made Vivien finally snap. Without warning, she lunged for Pope's gun, trying to wrest it from his grip, Tom lunging for the gun onstage. But as soon as it started, it ended, finishing in a stand-off, the barrel of Pope's gun jammed against Vivien's temple, her lip bleeding, Tom's own gun trained on Pope.

"So you've finally made your move," Pope sighed. "Should have made it sooner, instead of dithering like a blonde trying to spell her name."

"I didn't want it to come to this," Tom said from between gritted teeth.

"What, having to choose between your girl and your gang?" Pope said lightly, tightening his arm around Vivien's neck. "Don't get your panties into a twist over it, Professor, we've all been there."

"He doesn't know me," Vivien choked out, "I'm nothing to him."

"She's lying," Tom said, face blanching as Pope's finger curled around the trigger.

"And you're a fool!" Vivien spat. "End this, and end it now!"

Tom stared at her, her words stripping the hopeless hope from his heart. Who was to say Pope wouldn't kill them all? How could he sure that Hal was still alive, that he hadn't just been led out and executed? And what about the others? Were they still even alive? If he ended this now, at the expense of her life, he would have a chance to save himself and maybe the 2nd Mass, if he managed to get past the rest of Pope's gang. That was what she was giving him, that chance. But it was a chance he just couldn't take, and so he lowered his gun, Vivien viciously cursing him.

"Good man," Pope said. "Now put the gun down on the floor."

Tom did so.

"Now hoof it over here, and keep your hands up where I can see them," Pope ordered, getting out of his seat, steering Vivien forwards, towards Tom.

"Let her go," Tom said, voice cracking.

"What's the magic word?"

"Please!"

Pope shoved Vivien away from him, grinning sadistically as she stumbled towards Tom, who caught her in his outstretched arms. For a moment all she knew was Tom, his beard scraping against her cheek, the sheen of sweat of his anxious face, the mudsplattered front of his jacket; a moment where everything almost but not quite changed.

"You know, Professor," Pope said as he trained his gun on the two of them, "here we were, having good conversation, and all the while, you had ulterior motives."

"What else was he meant to do? A handstand?" Vivien spat.

Pope pulled a face, advancing on them.

"So you don't have a lot of good conversation with your men, huh?" Tom said, retreating, dragging Vivien with him.

"You kidding?" Pope scoffed. "Last book any of them read had a dog named Spot in it."

"Maybe you should join us."

"Join who?" Pope said, grinning sadistically again as Tom tripped backwards on the stage steps, Vivien catching his arm, steadying him.

"The resistance."

Pope guffawed. "You kidding?" he said. "Now, why would I do that?"

"I can gurantee good conversation," Tom said, much to Vivien's disbelief.

"Was that the chat-up line you were planning to use on her?" Pope sneered.

The tips of Tom's ears reddened.

"So what do _I _get, if _I _ join?" Pope drawled. "And a night in your boudoir better not be on the list, Professor."

"It doesn't work like that," Tom said from between gritted teeth again, his face now bright beetroot.

"Explain to me how it does, then."

"You know how to kill these creatures. We could use someone with that know how."

"All I know, is that there ain't no place this is going but down," Pope said quietly, his finger curling around the trigger.


	10. Into The Fray

**********Author's Note: **_Videos for this story, including characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel under **girlinashipwreck**_

* * *

**Into The Fray **

_Hold my hand_  
_I can hear the ghost calling_  
_Help me stand_  
_Even if the sky is falling_  
_And I want you to know_  
_I can't do it alone_  
_Hold my hand, my hand, my hand_

Tom and Vivien stood on the stage steps trapped at an impasse. Somehow Vivien's hand found Tom's, or his hand found hers; she didn't know. All she knew was that they were holding hands; hands that were shaking, sweaty, filthy; Tom's grip encompassing hers. Then Billy suddenly screamed, making them all jump, including Pope. The next thing Vivien knew Pope was aiming his gun at her, Tom shoving her behind him, the gesture irrationally irritating her. There was only so much Papa Smurf Protection she could endure - then she caught herself, realising she was starting to crack up.

"Step aside, Cambridge!" Pope yelled. "Or I'll put a bullet between your eyes! Don't think I won't, .50 cal or not!"

Before Tom could react, Vivien darted out from behind him, throwing herself in front of Tom instead. "Don't hurt him!" Vivien ordered, her heart thumping like a drum in her chest as she tried to stare Pope down.

"Get your ass into gear and help my brother, then," Pope spat, clambering up onto the stage, training his gun on Tom instead as he knelt down beside the writhing Billy, "or by God I'll mount your precious professor's head on my wall, Red-Coat,"

"Alright, alright!" Vivien retorted, shoving Tom out of the way as she tore up the stage steps, making her way over to Billy instead. She crouched down beside him, wondering what the hell she was going to do. For all her big talk, she wasn't a doctor. All she knew was scraps; bits and pieces bitterly acquired through hard experience, most of them irrelevant to what was happening here. She'd already done what she could for Billy, she didn't think she could do anything more for him, not that she wanted to, remembering his hands on her, his teeth sinking into her flesh.

"Get to it, girl," Pope said before standing up, striding over to Tom instead, forcing him to hold his hands up above his head, Tom looking away, dark eyes filled with hatred. "Don't start taking an attitude with me, Professor," Pope warned as he steered Tom down the stage steps, kicking the gun Tom had surrendered aside, "or you'll feel the back of my hand, boy."

Tom just scoffed at this, his face contorted with loathing, twisting his features, making him look like a whole other person, the sight startling Vivien. She thought the stranger was a soft-touch, brave but still a soft-touch for all that, but now she realised that appearances were deceptive, that there was a whole other side to him she wasn't sure she wanted to know. Then seeing Pope glance at her, his brow furrowing, she hastily turned her attention back to Billy. Obviously his hit had worn off, but other than that, she didn't have a clue.

Trying to look like she knew what she was doing, she dipped her fingers into the bowl of water beside Billy, before shaking them dry, futilely wishing for hot running water and soap, maybe even a fluffy white towel. Against her better judgement, she glanced up at Tom again, and as his eyes met hers, she realised that he knew she didn't know what was she doing, not anymore at least, but she also sensed that he had hope in her; no matter how strange it seemed, he believed she could pull this off.

"Hey Romeo, the party's happening here, not up there," Pope snapped, clipping Tom around the head as he tied Tom's wrists behind him again, making Tom grit his teeth as he fought to keep his temper. Their lives were on the line; he couldn't afford to lose focus.

Vivien tore her eyes away from Tom, looking down at Billy instead, something like panic almost overwhelming her. Then she pulled herself together, forcing herself to slide her hand behind Billy's head, using it to support him as she lifted a blue cup of water to his pale lips, trickling water down his throat, choking down her revulsion at having to touch him. She didn't know what she was doing except keeping him from being dehydrated.

"Is it bad or wicked bad?" Pope shouted to Billy as he forced Tom to sit down in the aisle seat.

"Oh it's wicked bad, bro," Billy croaked, spluttering slightly as the water went down his throat the wrong way.

"Do you want me to load you up again?" Pope asked as he ascended the stage steps, taking them two at a time.

"Yeah, man, dose me up, dose me up," Billy pleaded.

Pope dropped to his knees beside Vivien, rifling through the various bags and bottles of pills and powders. "Give him some more of that vodka," Pope ordered, throwing her a filthy look.

Vivien just stared at him, confused, before realising he meant the blue cup, the one she thought was filled with water. Cursing herself for her incompetency, she raised Billy's head again, tilting the cup against his lips once more, Billy gulping the vodka down gratefully. Personally she thought it was a bad idea to give Billy alcohol on top of what he'd already taken, but she held her tongue. If it did Billy any damage, he deserved it. He was always the first to torment her; yet here she was, trying to save his life.

"What's wrong with him?" Pope demanded, squinting at the label on a half empty pill bottle.

"You can't dose him up again, not with that shit," Vivien spat, sidestepping the question, "or he'll end up OD'ing."

"Don't you think I know that?" Pope retorted. "Cueball gave him enough to knock out an elephant, man. I'm surprised he even came round. But then again, you're always surprising me, ain't ya, Bills?" he fired at his brother.

"I'm the King of Surprises, man," Billy slurred. "The fucking Santa Claus of them."

"So what's wrong with him?" Pope repeated, eyes glinting dangerously as he studied her, almost like he knew she was lying.

"We need to check for an exit wound," Vivien said, thinking fast, her stomach churning, "to see if the bullet's still inside his body."

"That means turning him over, yeah?" Pope said, looking less than happy at the prospect.

Vivien resisted the urge to say _duh, _clenching her teeth instead as she tried to roll Billy over, making him scream in agony, Pope lunging at her. The next thing she knew, she was flying backwards, her head smashing off the stage, Tom yelling in alarm. With some difficulty, she sat up, watching as Pope picked up a bottle of brandy, pouring it down Billy's throat, forcing him to drink it. She gingerly ran her fingers over her throbbing face, wincing as they met the jutting ridge of her cheekbone, hoping the worst Pope had done was bruise it.

"Get your ass over here, bitch!" Pope hollered, smashing the bottle of brandy back down on the stage.

Cursing him under her breath, she crawled on her hands and knees back over to Billy, hatred for him and his brother threatening to overcome reason. It was only Tom's presence that was restraining her from attacking Pope there and then. And there would be no point to such an action anyways, especially when she would just be easily overpowered, particularly in her weakened state.

"Right, we're rolling him over, Red-Coat," Pope said, flexing his fingers theatrically. Between them both, they managed to turn the whining Billy over, Vivien feigning to examine his still bleeding thigh with an expert eye.

"It's alright, there's an exit wound," Vivien said with some difficulty as they turned the now almost fainting Billy onto his back again.

"So what's the problem?"

"Like I said, the bullet's clipped the artery, severing it," Vivien parroted, repeating what she had said earlier. "A tourniquet isn't going to be enough to stop the bleeding."

"We know that," Pope snapped, the strain making the veins in his neck bulge, "what else is up with him?"

"I - I think there's internal bleeding," Vivien stuttered, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth.

"Well, deal with it then," Pope said, looking at her as though she was an imbecile.

Vivien just gawped at him. She'd now completely and utterly exhausted her expertise. But then the doors at the back of the auditorium crashed open, making them all look up, only to see Maggie leading two people down the aisle, her silver hand guns trained on their backs, black cloth bags flung over their heads, their hands held out in front of them, hopelessly trying to feel their way forwards. Pope slowly stood up, face changing from white to red to purple as he pulled out his gun.

"Oh, this does not look like it's gonna make me very happy," Pope said to Maggie, "Tell me you have that GTO in the parking lot, or I am gonna be very disappointed." He suddenly booted over the throne's foot-rest, its thud making all but Maggie jump.

Instead, Maggie, cool-as-you-please, whipped the bags off the pair's heads, revealing Hal and a striking if slightly grubby looking woman in her mid thirties, her long dark hair falling to the small of her back, a satchel slung across her chest. Pope just stared at her, looking like he was going to strike something - or somebody. He wanted weaponry, not some woman for chrissake.

"I'm a doctor," Anne said, speaking directly to Pope. "I might be able to help your brother."

Vivien ran her hands down her face at this, all but slumping onto the stage in relief.

"What kind of doctor?" Pope demanded, striding down the stage steps towards her.

"The only one you've got," Anne said with quiet defiance, her gaze travelling over Vivien, almost but not quite ignoring her, before resting on the groaning Billy up on the stage. "Is that him?" she asked, impulsively stepping forwards as she said this, but Pope grabbed her arm, halting her. Anne stiffened, but she held her ground as Pope then grabbed the satchel, rummaging roughly through it, Tom watching with worried eyes. Sensing his stare, Anne looked over her shoulder at Tom, the expression in her eyes almost unreadable, but as they looked at each other, the guard dropped, and Vivien saw in the woman's face a deep seated gratitude the bearded stranger was still alive.

"If I fix him, will you let us leave?" Anne asked Pope as he shoved the satchel back at her.

"If you fix him, I'll let you live," Pope spat, grabbing Anne by the back of her jacket and shoving her in front of him, roughly steering her up the steps and onto the stage. "Deal with him," Pope ordered, giving her a violent push, making her stagger, Tom flinching in his seat. Anne recovered her balance, rage rising in her, rage she quelled with coldness. This wasn't about her; it was about Tom; about bringing him back alive. She made her way towards what was her patient, only to falter at the sight of Vivien kneeling beside him, as though she was the doctor and not Anne.

For a long moment, it was as if Anne was somebody else, Vivien taking her place, her life, all that she loved and lost; that _she _was Anne after all, the real Anne no more. Then the world righted itself, and Vivien was nothing more than the monster Anne believed her to be, with long dark tangled hair falling around her filthy face, long limbs curled up beneath her. Then Vivien glanced up at Anne, her eyes very big and very blue, making Anne visibly recoil. Nobody human had eyes that blue, the sight of them shocking her to the core in the same way the discovery of the Doctor's two hearts had.

Forcing herself to focus, Anne ducked her head, before kneeling down beside Billy, all but shouldering Vivien out of the way as she checked him over, feeling his pulse, listening to his chest, all too aware that Lourdes would be doing the same for the Doctor amongst the chaos back at base.

"It's a gunshot wound," Vivien said in a low voice, trying to be helpful and wondering why the hell she was even bothering, "clipped the artery or something, with suspected internal bleeding. The tourniquet's not working, and they've dosed him up on alcohol and illegal substances" -

- "Would you shut up?" Anne said from between gritted teeth, expertly turning Billy over, ignoring his cry of pain.

"I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need your help," Anne retorted, rummaging through her satchel for supplies, "especially from your kind."

Vivien gaped at her. Anne just ignored her, wiping her hands with some anti-bacterial wipes, before pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves and examining Billy's wound, muttering about_ bloody backseat drivers_, then something that sounded like _Skitter scum_, making it all suddenly become clear to Vivien. Somebody had been talking, the stranger's son to be precise. She edged away from Anne, leaving her to her work, staring out at the rows of empty seats instead, careful not to look at Tom.

* * *

The rest of Tom's group was marched back into the auditorium again, surrounded by Pope's partisans, their faces grim compared to the amused ones of their captors. Whilst they'd been forced to sit it out in the access tunnels, Dai and Anthony had been the butt of a barrage of racist comments; Karen subjected to a non-stop stream of suggestive remarks, with only the prospect of Pope's wrath protecting her from their wandering hands. The group were forced to stand to attention in the aisle, Tom relieved to see them all alive and in one piece, even more relieved to have Hal back again, sitting beside him, safe and sound, for the time being at least.

Somewhere between Anne cleaning his wound and stitching his artery up, Billy had passed out with the pain, the sight of him hitting the deck filling Vivien with savage hatred, making her fervently wish he would wake up so he would keep suffering like she'd suffered at his hands. Anne was now bandaging up Billy's thigh, stethoscope dangling from her neck, the sight of it reminding Vivien of the Doctor. She was desperate to ask Anne about him, but something in the woman's face warned her to keep her distance, so she did. Then Billy suddenly jolted awake, making Anne and Vivien reel back in shock.

"What happened!?" Billy bellowed, face bewildered.

"Easy, easy," Pope cajoled, shoving Vivien aside as he knelt down beside his brother.

"What's going on, man!?"

"Calm down, it's alright," Pope said, holding his brother down as Anne taped the bandage in place, trying to hide how shaken she was. "Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman here just stitched up your artery. She's stopped the bleeding, bro."

Billy didn't look convinced.

"You're gonna be okay," Pope said, slapping Billy on the shoulder, before standing up and gesturing to Cueball. "You got the tube?"

"Yeah," Cueball replied, eying Vivien warily.

"How about the shells?"

"Yep!" Whitey called from the back of the auditorium.

"Where are you going?" Vivien risked asking as Pope shrugged on his leather jacket.

"To rob the 2nd Massachusetts of all their worldly wealth, Red-Coat," Pope leered, pretending to twirl an imaginary moustache like a pantomime villain.

"I'm coming with you then," Billy said, trying and failing to sit up.

"You're sitting this dance out," Pope said, jabbing a beringed finger in Billy's direction. "We'll bring you back a nice blonde though." Maggie scoffed at this, turning away so Pope couldn't see the hatred in her eyes.

"What, you seriously expecting me to miss out on all the fun!?" Billy said incredulously.

"I need you here to hold the fort."

"What about the cootie slut?" Billy demanded. "Why ain't she in her cage?"

"Turns out she's with the 2nd Mass," Pope said, sounding bored, no longer really caring what was truth and what was a lie. "Double agent extraordinaire by day, warming their great bearded leader's bed at night. Don't kill her unless you have to."

Tom shrank down in his seat, avoiding Anne's eye.

"I ain't got no intention of killing her," Billy said, eying Vivien like she was a slice of beef, "not with a body like that." Vivien just stared coldly at him, holding her ground, bile rising in her throat.

Pope rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's why I'm leaving Maggie and Cueball so you don't get carried away with yourself," he said, signalling to one of his men out front, who nodded, gesturing to the others to help him as he forced Dai and the others into the front row of seats at gun point. Pope watched, something like satisfaction flickering over his face, before turning and strutting down the stage steps, hollering at his men to follow him as he left the auditorium, Maggie and Cueball assuming sentry position, their guns trained on their captives.

As the doors banged shut behind them, Billy glanced up at Vivien again, gaze roving voraciously over her, making her flesh crawl. And again, Vivien just stood her ground, lips thinning in disgust. Then, as swift as a snake, Billy lunged forwards, grabbing her bare thigh, fingers digging into her flesh, making her scream in shock and pain, Anne scrambling backwards, scattering medical supplies to the wind.

"Hey!" Tom hollered from the front row, Cueball cocking his gun at him as he tried to get out of his seat, but all Vivien could focus on was Billy's bruising grip on her leg, panic and terror completely overwhelming her. Then just as swiftly as he grabbed her, he let her go, laughing as she frantically dragged herself away from him, over to where Anne had retreated, just next to the cage.

"You wanna go back in there, honey?" Billy bellowed, lazily scratching his armpit. Vivien crawled away from the cage, no longer caring about being defiant and brave. If she had to spend one more second in there, she would die. Billy just laughed again; making Maggie glance over her shoulder at him, face unreadable as Billy's attention then switched from Vivien to Anne, his gaze travelling over the other woman almost appraisingly. Then he shook his head, dismissing her.

"No offence, sweetheart, but I like them young, you know?" he said to Anne, sounding almost apologetic.

Anne looked away, repulsed. Billy just guffawed, before glancing over at Tom and the others, his gaze dwelling on Karen instead, his face hardening at the sight of her.

"Get up," Billy ordered.

Karen just looked at him, feigning confusion.

"He's talking to you," Maggie said wearily, her dead eyes boring into the blonde girl's.

But Karen remained seated, jaw tightening.

"I said, get up!" Billy shouted, getting angry now.

Karen looked at Hal, something passing between them. Then with great reluctance, she got to her feet.

"That's it," Billy said, looking her up and down. "Now turn around, I wanna see what we got."

Karen turned slowly on the spot, her face reddening with rage, lips pressed together like she was trying not to say something that would result with a bullet between her eyes. Vivien watched the sickening tableau unfold, feeling like she was going throw up, unable to say anything, completely crippled by her own fear.

"Look at you," Billy said, letting out a low whistle, "you are a pretty one. Between you and our lil English rose, the three of us are gonna have ourselves a real good time, you know that?"

Karen exchanged another look with Hal, his face despairing, hers almost but not quite pleading, pride propping her up, Vivien nearly vomiting there and then. Maggie stood up, turning to face the stage, her face pale, almost ghostly in the growing gloom. "Hey," she said, making Anne look at her in confusion, not sure who the woman was addressing, whether it was her or Vivien.

"I'm talking to you," Maggie said, aiming her gun at Anne, making Tom tense up. "Is Billy gonna live?"

"What?" Anne said, even more confused.

Maggie just looked at her like she was an imbecile.

"I - I mean, yes, if his wound doesn't get infected," Anne stuttered, recovering herself.

"Why are you asking her that?" Billy started to ask before being suddenly silenced by a bullet, the gunshot rippling through the air, Anne throwing herself to the floor, Vivien following suit, arms flung over her head as Maggie whirled around, shooting Cueball through the chest. There was a long shocked silence, Vivien rooted to the spot, unable to believe that _that _had just happened.

"After they grabbed me, three months ago," Maggie said brokenly, her voice echoing in the long silence, making Vivien raise her head from her arms, "Billy... well... let's just say he deserved to die." Maggie stared at Cueball's corpse, her eyes dead and distant. "Cueball thought he was better because he brought chocolates." Silence. "He wasn't." She bit her lower lip, looking like she was going to break down and cry, before regaining control of herself, smiling sarcastically at them all, the others just looking at her in horror. Then she turned around, training her gun on Vivien.

"Get up," Maggie ordered.

Vivien slowly got to her feet, heart in mouth.

"Don't do this, Maggie, you're better than that, better than them," Tom said quietly, struggling to stay in his seat, scared any swift movement would make her open fire on Vivien.

Maggie just ignored him, all her attention riveted on Vivien. "I don't know who you are or what you are," Maggie said slowly, motioning to Vivien to get off the stage, Vivien reluctantly doing so, "but the next time you try to break Pope's nose, you better try harder, or even better, break his neck. Got it?"

Vivien nodded, wondering where this was going, Tom watching with narrowed eyes as Maggie finally lowered her gun. She turned back to Tom, her own eyes narrowing as Tom jerked his head at Vivien.

"Is she really with the Skitters?" he asked, his words making Vivien realise this was the beginning of the end, their alliance now over.

"I don't know," Maggie said, shrugging her shoulders as she stowed away her guns. "Pope went out a few nights ago with the rest of his low-lifes, and came back with her, saying they saw her with a bunch of cooties, all cosy-cosy, like she was one of their gang."

"So she's been here for a while?" Tom pressed.

"Yeah."

"Nothing's came after her?"

"Nope."

"Dad, we don't have time for this," Hal interjected, exchanging a glance with Anne, both silently agreeing this was not the time to tell Tom the Doctor had been shot. "Weaver's evacuating everyone to a factory nearby, but God knows how that's going to go down if Pope gets to them first."

"And we can't let him get that GTO," Dai added, Anthony nodding in agreement.

"Then we better get moving," Maggie said, pulling out her knife before striding towards Tom who stood up somewhat nervously, still unable to believe what Maggie had just done. "Don't look so scared, big boy," Maggie said, rolling her eyes, "I'm not going to Sweeney Todd you - yet."

Tom just raised his eyebrows, trying to keep his cool so nobody could see that she was scaring the pants off him. Then his eye caught Vivien's, the sight of her pale face stabbing him through the heart as he irrationally remembered the weight of her hand in his, perfectly balanced... "How come you got out of South Boston alive?" Tom fired at her.

"I hid in a dumpster, _dweeb_," Vivien said, forcing herself to fight back even if all she felt like doing was curl up into a ball on the floor.

"Wow, you're so witty," Tom retorted as Maggie cut him loose. "Where's your tracking device fitted then? Leg? Arm?"

"I don't have one."

"If you did, they'd have found you by now."

Vivien just looked away.

"Why are they hunting you? Did you defect or something?" Tom pressed.

"What, is she an alien as well?" Hal asked, exchanging nervous glances with the others as Maggie moved between them, cutting them free.

"But if she was, wouldn't she be on their side?" Karen said, confused. "They wouldn't be hunting her, yeah?"

"She's a hybrid," Tom hazarded, "thought you'd have worked that out though, what with the banshee routine earlier."

Vivien glared at him, his words hitting her like whiplash, confirming his suspicions.

"How do you all this?" Hal said, bewildered.

"The Doctor dropped enough hints. I worked out the rest," Tom said darkly, thinking of Weaver and his surly suspicions over Vivien's humanity.

"Where is he?" Vivien demanded, trying to keep her temper.

"Where is who?" Tom said maddeningly.

"The Doctor, that's who!"

"Why are they hunting you?" Tom repeated.

Vivien bit her lip, not sure what to say. They were hunting her because of the TARDIS, but she wasn't going to tell him that, not a snowball's chance in hell. But then again, he might already know about the TARDIS. She was in dangerous territory so she just stuck to silence instead, shooting Tom another dirty look, her thick black brows drawing together in a frown, face mutinous.

"Why are they after you? Is it because of what you are?" he demanded, towering above her.

Vivien stared up at him, feeling all the blood drain from her face.

"Are you alright?" Tom said before he could stop himself, his hand reaching for her shoulder as though to steady her, making Anne raise an eyebrow.

"Stay away from me," Vivien spat. "If you come near me, I'll kill you, I swear I will."

"Am I right then?" Tom said, taking a step forwards, dropping his hand to his side. "Is that why they want you, because you're a hybrid?"

Vivien took a step backwards, shaking from head to foot, his words resurrecting a nightmare she was trying to outrun, throwing up possibilities she'd never considered - _or hadn't wanted to, _a little voice in her head whispered nastily.

"Dad, we have to go, and we have to go now!" Hal snapped, grabbing his father's arm. "We don't have time for all this!"

"Okay, okay," Tom said, shaking his head as though to clear it, "load the pick-up with as much ammo and guns as you can, we're going to need it" -

- "Obviously," Karen said sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"What about Click?" Anthony asked quietly.

"We'll come back for him, I promise," Tom said, his voice cracking, "but right now, we have to deal with Pope."

"You're forgetting your girlfriend," Maggie said dryly, jerking her head at Vivien. "You bringing her along to meet your folks or what?"

Tom ran his hand hopelessly over his beard, sensing this was going to get nasty. As though to prove his point, Vivien suddenly sprang to life, doing a runner. Tom tore after her, his long limbs giving him the advantage, the others scattering as he grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her middle, pinning her to him. The next few moments saw mayhem ensue, Vivien twisting and turning, trying to sink her teeth into him, Tom swerving and swaying almost comically, cursing her as he did so.

"You seriously bringing that back with us!?" Hal said incredulously.

"Yes I am!" Tom bellowed, nearly losing his balance.

"For God's sake, somebody get us some rope!" Dai hollered, rushing forward, trying to help Tom pinion Vivien's arms behind her back.

Hal dashed off to find some, but Karen was quicker on the draw, binding Vivien's wrists together, before doing her ankles, diving out of the way as Vivien tried to kick her in the face. Maggie threw herself into the fray, hastily gagging Vivien, barely avoiding getting her fingers bitten off, Anthony throwing one of the black cloth bags over Vivien's head, hiding her contorted face from sight. Then Vivien was being swung off her feet and over Tom's shoulder, her body thrashing wildly as she drummed her bloodied bare feet into Tom's back.

"Would you stop that!?" Tom shouted, Vivien simply kicking him again for good measure.

"I can see who wears the trousers in your house," Maggie said, smirking a little, "and it sure as hell ain't you, Cambridge."

* * *

"Come on, Tom!" Dai shouted, sticking his head out of the pick-up window.

"Yeah, we've got Pope's dirty ass to kick to kingdom come," Maggie hollered from the back of the pick-up, "and we're not going to do it sitting out here like a bunch of dames at a Daughters of the American Revolution re-enactment."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Tom bellowed, feeling every one of his forty years as he crossed the lot, Vivien slung over his shoulder like an old carpet, unaware that he was being watched from the shadows by ruby-red eyes glimmering in the moonlight. During the frenzied preparations of loading up the pick-up with ammo and weapons, he'd taken Vivien backstage, before setting her down on her feet and removing the bag from her head. She'd lunged at him, and he'd ducked, rugby-tackling her against the wall, saying from between gritted teeth that he just wanted to talk to her.

She'd fallen still, and he'd fallen silent, not sure what he was going to say after all. And what could he have said anyways, he thought grimly to himself, _I'm sorry I'm handing you over to a bunch of aliens who probably want to dissect you? _And that was the root of the matter. He was feeling guilty about giving her to the enemy. But he was going to have to do it anyways, he had no other option; there were too many lives on the line for him not to.

"A ship should not ride on a single anchor, nor life on a single hope," Tom murmured to himself as he clambered into the pick-up cab, Hal and Dai exchanging pointed glances as he shifted Vivien into a more seemly position, trying to sit her decorously on his lap, Tom feeling like a dirty old man as he did so. "Sorry, Vivien," he said to her, flushing horribly as he said her name, "just... just hang on."

"Hang onto what, old man? You?" Hal said with uncharacteristic spite. "Her hands are tied behind her back in case you haven't noticed."

"It's more like you'll be hanging onto her," Dai added, kicking the engine into gear. "But I'm sure you'll enjoy that, oh great bearded leader."

"What, you think this is funny?" Tom spat. "You think I'm getting some sick thrill out of this? Click is dead and God knows what's going down back at base. This isn't the time for levity!"

"And this isn't the time to start auditioning new step-mothers for us," Hal retorted, stunning Tom. "You went out on a limb for a complete head-case, a head-case that turns out to be the hybrid girlfriend of an alien, the pair of them hand-in-glove with the Skitters."

"And what was all that shit about them hunting her?" Dai interjected. "Or is that classified information, Tom? Are we too lowly to know, chief?"

Tom swallowed hard, fighting the mad urge to bury his face in Vivien's shoulder. He couldn't deal with this, he just couldn't. But Dai refused to let it drop, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, turning it with a force that almost sent them flying.

"Ever since you got promoted, Tom, things have changed," Dai said from between gritted teeth, "you're distant, distracted, like we're not good enough to deserve your attention. We're meant to be a team, but you're acting like you exist apart from us. You keep us out of the loop when it used to be your first priority. You were our stepping stone between the civilians and the big-wigs. Now you're holding all these secret meetings that only the highest ranking soldiers and fighters are allowed to attend, the rest of us isolated and ostracised like lepers. Plus there's the small fact of you and your family living it up in a huge mansion with extra food on the table. I thought we were fighting this war together, but it's starting to look like we're not."

"You're not exactly roughing it either, Dai," Hal pointed out with strained politeness, "you've got a warm bed to go back to as well."

"Okay, okay," Dai reluctantly conceded, "but you can't deny your dad's becoming a dictator. He's even blacklisting you."

"I'm not turning into a dictator!" Tom said, stung. "Nor am I blacklisting anyone!"

"So what the hell's going!?" Dai fired back. "Why are you acting like you're the Marilyn Monroe of the 2nd Mass, as if you're Weaver's special pet? Next thing we know, you'll be popping out of a cake and singing Happy Birthday to him!"

"You really want to know?" Tom said from between gritted teeth.

"Yeah, I do actually," Dai said infuriatingly, "and you can explain why you're trying to play the part of Prince Charming to Cinderella here as well."

"Porter said go to ground in Acton, so I agreed, as did Weaver," Tom snarled, "except thanks to Cinderella, Porter's orders have taken on a whole new meaning."

"What do you mean, Dad?" Hal said, exchanging a confused glance with Dai.

As Tom talked, explaining the situation and the need for secrecy, his words washed over Vivien, barely registering yet scarring her soul. She already knew she was being hunted down, but she didn't understand why they didn't want the Doctor as well, because he and the TARDIS came as a set, no separation. As for Acton being isolated from the rest of the areas being searched, the only explanation she could come up with was that Red-Eye was behind it in some way. In fact she suspected Red-Eye had led her to the armoury so the 2nd Mass would find her. If it was done to help her find the Doctor, she didn't know, but she did know something major was going down, something that was simultaneously bigger than her and about her.

But now she was in a bigger mess than she had been before. The Doctor might be being held prisoner by the 2nd Mass, but there were two hundred of their civilians in danger because of her, and she wasn't going to have their blood on her hands. She was going to have to walk into the lion's den in order to save a bunch of strangers. Under the darkness of the black cloth bag, Vivien closed her eyes, willing herself the strength to carry out such a plan. Without thinking, she leant her head against Tom's shoulder, the gesture silencing him and the others.

"Whoa," Hal said, starting to get freaked out now. "Why did she just do that?"

"Think she fancies a taste of Tom?" Dai said darkly.

"Latrodectus mactans," Tom said before he could stop himself.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that, Professor," Dai said, pretending to frown.

"Latrodectus mactans, the venomous New World spider more commonly known as the black widow" -

- "That's enough, Dad," Hal said hastily, "we get the picture."

"And what a picture," Dai said even more darkly.

Silence.

"Why would we go to ground in Acton anyways?" Hal said, changing the subject. "We can't go to ground anywhere - as soon as we set up camp somewhere, these things are on top of us like a duck on a June bug."

"The metaphors tonight are just killing me," Dai said dryly, "first Maggie with her 'dames', now you with your June bugs."

"Going to ground was never a feasible plan," Tom said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"So why would Porter issue such an order?" Hal asked.

"Because his back's against the wall."

"And so's ours now," Dai said.

"We can't stay in Acton forever, Dad," Hal said.

"We were never going to, not with Ben out there," Tom said in a low voice, tensing up as Vivien shifted against his shoulder. "If he wasn't in Acton, we would have moved on."

Hal just nodded, his gaze riveted on Vivien, not missing the way his father wound his arm round her waist to steady her against him as Dai took a sharp turn. Something like intense dislike was beginning to grow in him towards Vivien, turning his fear of her into something more virulent. There was danger here, danger that went beyond what she was. And it wasn't just that which was eating away at him; it was also the fact she'd stepped in and saved his life that made him resent her so. He didn't want to owe his life to the enemy.

"So you're going to offload the girl onto the Skitters, then?" Dai said, spinning the steering wheel round.

"That's the plan," Tom said uneasily as Vivien's body turned rigid, her head lifting slightly in his direction.

"Why do they want her anyways?" Dai asked. "Do you really think it's because she's a hybrid?"

"I don't know," Tom replied, "maybe she's turned traitor, defecting or deserting or something."

"Whatever it is, I hope we're not opening another front getting involved with this girl and the alien dude," Dai said grimly, "we can barely fight this war, never mind another one."


End file.
